


Seeds In A Garden

by protestations



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Is Bisexual AF, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angelica Schuyler Deserved Love, Gen, Modern Era, President Angelica Schuyler, Professor George Washington
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protestations/pseuds/protestations
Summary: You know, when you're dying? Life tends to flash before your eyes. You realize things that you didn't really know were important. And, for the first (and last) time, you begin to really wonder what your legacy is, and what is missing from it.(Modern AU. Will add warnings/characters as needed. The answer is all of them.)





	1. PHILIP.

**Author's Note:**

> So much thanks to [Dai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarmingly) for helping brainstorm this beast!!

* * *

******PHILIP**.

_Washington D.C._

_72 Hours since Alexander Hamilton was shot._

* * *

_“Philip Hamilton, host of the hit podcast “What’s Going On?”, has decided that this week’s topic is going to revolve around the attempted assassination of his father, Alexander Hamilton, and that perspective—”_

_“—podcast picks one massive event a week to break down for the general public, and many speculated that Philip Hamilton would take the week off. Obviously, right? But without warning, he’s dropped a two-hour long episode simply titled ‘Alexander Hamilton.’ What is he thinking?”_

_“—you know, the episode breaks down Secretary Hamilton’s story like no other, and the Secretary of the Treasury has been infamously private about his personal life, especially with his family, but Philip Hamilton lays it all totally out there, while his father is fighting for his life—”_

The highlight reel of publicity was cut short as the laptop lid closed, and Philip pursed his lips together, his free hand rubbing his thigh. Ever since the accident, his leg had never been the same… and he could swear that it was only in times of great stress that it hurt him, anymore. 

Now, though, Philip was convinced it was a warning sign that he was ten seconds from the tongue lashing of his twenty-something years of existence.

“What were you thinking?”

His aunt’s tone was dangerously calm, even-handed. Unlike her, really. Angelica Schuyler burned hot, and it was whenever she spoke calmly that Philip knew he was actually in trouble. Like his father, Angelica was calculated, cunning, and deliberately destroyed people when angry. She had skated through the Presidential debates with an ease that most people envied, and Angelica Schuyler was a woman that few people wanted to enrage. 

Philip had seen the aftermath of his beloved aunt's temper. He never thought he would be on the receiving end of it. But, then again, it had been something of a horrific, yet historic, week.

Idly, Philip wondered whether or not he was the first person to be yelled at by the President in the Oval Office. But then Philip realized that his father had probably earned that honor first.

“Philip.”

“I heard you,” Philip said tiredly, shifting to rest his elbows on his knees, running his hands over his face. “I was thinking I hadn’t missed a week yet, and there’s really nothing else in the news worth talking about, so—”

Immediately, Philip knew that being dismissive was not going to work. Angelica rarely interrupted him, when he spoke, but her words cut him off like a knife through hot butter. _It's her President voice_ , a voice inside his head echoed, and Philip was distracted enough by his own stray thoughts that he almost missed what Angelica was saying. “We don’t have any idea who did this to him, or why, or—”

“We know _why_ , Aunt Angelica,” Philip interrupted quietly, his fingers kneading his forehead, and Angelica’s voice soon fell silent. “We know exactly why. Just because we don’t have a person’s name doesn’t mean we don’t know why this person tried to kill him.” The silence continued, damn near unbearable, before Philip finally raised his eyes to see his aunt – his aunt, the President of the United States, sitting behind the Resolute desk, her hands clapsed in front of her mouth. She looked positively exhausted…dark circles underneath her eyes, a stray curl escaping from her hastily put together bun. But despite that, Angelica looked just as she always did—prepared for a fight. 

Philip was, too. 

“Dad wouldn’t have wanted me to sit here feeling sorry for myself,” Philip continued, shifting to stand…a hand catching the arm of the chair to keep his balance, his bad leg stiff and awkward as he moved to walk toward the desk, to collect his laptop. “I needed to do something, so I did what I do best.”

“Draw attention to yourself?” Angelica said after a long moment, her eyes following her nephew as he began to pack away his laptop, sliding it into the leather bag that Angelica knew his father had given him for a graduation gift. “Paint a target on your back? Poke the psychopath that tried to kill your father by calling them out in a podcast that's got a reach of millions?"

“Stir shit,” Philip corrected, closing the bag, clasping it shut. 

"There's a time and a place to stir shit," Angelica said pointedly, rising to her feet as Philip shouldered his bag, resting her hands on the Resolute desk. It struck an image, truly; she was born to be in this position, and Philip felt an odd pang in his chest when he heard his father's voice, warm and proud, in his ear. _Your aunt is going to change the world in a way that I can't_. But Philip quickly shoved down the lurch of emotion, listening to his aunt speak. "And I'm not telling you that you can't vent, or call it out, or react, but you have got to keep yourself safe. Do you understand me?"

"Loud and clear," Philip murmured, adjusting the strap of his bag. His phone buzzed in his pocket. His sisters, probably, or Theo... 

"Have you seen him yet, today?"

The shift in Angelica's voice was almost impossible to detect, but Philip could hear it. The shift from scolding to concerned, the grief that she held in her eyes counteracted by the crispness of her tone. Matter-of-fact, to the point, not allowing herself to show how she actually feels. Philip almost doesn't answer the question, but something inside his chest compels him to speak. Even though the answer to the question that his aunt will ask next (how is he?) is going to be the same as it has been for the last week and a half.

"No, but Mom says he's still the same. Unconscious, but alive." Alive, alive, Philip had to make sure to tack that part on. Alive. "He made it out of surgery, but he lost a lot of blood. They're not sure if he's suffered any brain damage yet or not, so they're just trying to keep him stable."

There was a silence, at that, before Angelica lowered herself back into her seat, the movement slow, purposeful. 

"He's going to make it, Philip," Angelica said, her lips pursing together as she looked at her nephew. Her expression was hard to read, but Philip could swear that he could see the tiniest glistening of tears, in the corners of her eyes. "He's strong."

"I know that," came the easy response, as Philip turned to walk out. But before he left, he added, "That's why I did the podcast."

* * *

_Six Hours Earlier._

* * *

"You think this is a good idea?"

His younger sister, Angelica, was seated in a rolling chair to his left, her feet tucked underneath her as she wrapped her arms around her knees. The sudden absence of their father had weighed heaviest on her, because as much as Angie denied it, she was absolutely her father's precious angel. And while their little sister certainly was feeling the most terror, Angie was feeling the heaviest loss.

So, it was for this reason that Philip allowed her to come into his hotel room in Washington D.C., to let her set up his impromptu podcast studio. And as he was setting up the microphones, Philip responded, "What else are we supposed to do? Sit here, and let everyone else speak for us?"

"Hell no." The response caused an odd weight to appear in his throat, and Philip looked up to his sister, who was staring back at him with a set jaw and a stormy look in her eyes. "I want to tell the truth."

"So why are you asking me if it's a good idea?"

"Because it's probably a bad idea if I want to do it." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, as she watched her brother adjust the microphones. "What are you going to talk about?"

"I normally break down an important event and start a conversation on the pod, and the only thing in the news this week is what happened to Dad," Philip responded, taking a seat next to Angie as he opened his laptop, to call up the recording software. "So that's what I'm going to do. How this started, the entire shitshow. I'm just going to start talking until I don't want to talk anymore. And I want to tell his story."

There was a silence, as Angie watched Philip, before she unfolded her legs and pulled the chair closer to the table, near a microphone. "From the beginning?" she asked, casting a glance toward Philip, her lips twitching into a faint smile. It just barely reached her eyes, lightening the dark circles underneath them, and the motion caused Philip's chest to tighten, just the tiniest bit.

It was the first time Philip had seen his sister smile since their father had been shot.

"From the beginning," Philip said finally, offering her a set of headphones with an equally faint, but still there, grin. "Right where people are going to get the most pissed. So, I'm thinking... Nevis?"

"Nevis," Angie agreed, sliding on the headphones, and adjusting the microphone so it could pick up her voice, too. "He'd want us to start in Nevis. And he'd definitely want us to not tell Mom we were doing this."

"Oh, yeah, we're definitely not telling Mom we're doing this," Philip murmured as he adjusted his own microphone.

There was a moment of hestation, as his fingers hesitated over the keyboard. This was a rash, impulsive decision, and something in Philip's head told him that doing this was likely a stupid idea. But the week had been a constant deluge of mistruths, misstatements, and general mischaracterizations of the man his father is... and, honestly, what else could be done?

The worst had already happened.

So, Philip pressed record, and began to talk. 

"This is What's Going On?, a weekly podcast by Philip Hamilton, that's me, to break down what's going on in the news... and I'm joined today by my sister, Angie, because there's really only one thing happening in the news this week, and I don't think I need to say what it is." There was a pause, before Philip glanced at Angie, who remained silent, simply watching her older brother. And, seeing no need to stop, Philip cleared his throat and continued. "So we decided to take the week to talk about it. Talk about what happened, break down what's going on, and just... talk about him."

"Because no one else is," came Angie's voice, carrying a particularly frustrated growl with her tone.

"Yeah." There was another silence, before Philip drew in a deep breath. "So we're gonna start at the beginning, because we all know why someone went after him, right? Because of who he is, because of--"

"Because of what he stood for, because of the stuff he was saying, and doing," Angie interrupted, her voice coming into an exhale as she adjusted her weight, to scoot closer to the microphone. "Someone wanted to shut him up, and nobody is talking about that."

"But we're going to," Philip said in reassurance, earning another faint smile from his sister, before he adjusted his headphones. "Before we do that, though, I'm going to break down our historical event for the week--my father, Alexander Hamilton, was born on an island called Nevis, in the Caribbean. That's where his story starts, and we can't get to what happened this week without breaking down what happened back then.. so hang tight, because this is going to be a long one."


	2. AARON.

* * *

**AARON**

_Washington D.C._

_72 Hours since Alexander Hamilton was shot._

* * *

_"My father came here as an immigrant. He used to tell us that he had about fifty bucks in his pocket, a backpack, and no clue how to work the subway system when he showed up in New York City. He was there on a full ride to Columbia, a gift that came to him at exactly the right place at exactly the right time, but he still had to get to New York, you know? And that's what makes this city great, this country great. You can come here with nothing, and turn into something, and that's exactly what Dad wanted to do."_

"Why in the hell are you torturing yourself by listening to that?"

Aaron Burr didn't look over at the familiar voice in his doorway, but he did shift to click the space bar on his laptop, which silenced the podcast that had been playing. It had been chaos, on the Hill--a nightmare, really, given the security increase, the police pouring through the city, and the individual who had attempted to murder the Secretary of the Treasury still on the loose. If Aaron Burr were smart, he would leave the city, and resume his life in New York City as if nothing had happened... but doing that felt wrong, particularly with the sudden weight in his chest that came with the knowledge that Alexander Hamilton may not be long for this world.

"Mr. Secretary," Aaron murmured, glancing over his desk to see Thomas Jefferson, dressed casually, and looking equally exhausted in the doorway. The man only lingered in the door frame for half a second after acknowledged before he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Seemingly inviting himself in, as was standard. "What can I help you with?"

Thomas pulled a chair from the wall to sit in front of the desk of the Senator, the legs dragging against the carpet. Aaron watched the lines created in the carpet impassively, noting that Thomas could have simply lifted the chair like a civilized adult rather than drag it across the ground, but didn't bother saying so out loud. Instead, he simply waited for Thomas to take a seat, watching as the Secretary of State folded his arms over his chest, taking his time to consider what he wanted to say before, _finally_ :

"Have you seen him yet?"

"Have you?" Aaron responded evenly, straightening in his chair to face Thomas properly. "I doubt either of us would be welcome at his bedside."

"I don't see why we wouldn't be," Thomas retorted with a shrug of his shoulders, and the blase attitude sparked some dormant _aggravation_ inside Aaron's chest. Sitting around and chatting about Alexander lying on a bed dying somewhere seemed like the opposite of what either of them should be doing, but then again, what else is there to do? "We didn't pull the trigger."

"No, but we loaded the gun." His tone was dark, frustrated, and Aaron rested his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers. It was a pretense, as if Aaron was actually considering anything at all. But his mind had transformed into white noise, since he had received the news. _Someone shot Alexander Hamilton in the middle of a speech in front of the Capitol_. "We didn't shoot him, but we certainly stoked the flames."

"You can sit here, and feel sorry for yourself, or you can be proactive," Thomas responded coolly, tilting back in the chair to stretch his arms. And, for the second time, Aaron noted that he seemed exhausted... the President had likely called a cabinet meeting the moment she had the chance, and he doubted Thomas had slept. Hadn't he just been ... in where, China? Had he been sent to China? Did it even matter anymore? "So no, I haven't seen him. I don't like him, I never liked him, and I'm guessing his family would rather not see me around, but _you_? You've known him for decades."

"Are you honestly lecturing me on not visiting a comatose Alexander Hamilton in the hospital?" 

"He can't talk," Thomas said mildly, shrugging his shoulders. "Best visit either of us will ever have." There was a silence, after that, before Aaron's lips twitched into a faint smile. Involuntary, but enough for the armor to crack, and for Thomas to find a way in. "I'm not going by myself because the President already told me not to bother, but you aren't bound by the power of the Executive, Mr. Legislator."

"So you're asking me to defy an order from the President, to not visit her brother-in-law in the hospital, because... why, you want to make sure Alexander isn't dead?" Aaron asked, a bit incredulous, but his spine was straightening as he sat up a bit more in his seat. "What is your end-game, Thomas?"

"Maybe I give a damn," was the only response Aaron got, as Thomas stood, stretching his arms with a long exhale. "Are you coming, or not?"

There was a silence, before Aaron sighed and stood, collecting his phone. The podcast that had been playing on his laptop was synced, and Aaron glanced at the title ( _Alexander Hamilton_ ) before he pocketed the phone, exhaling slowly. 

How had it come to this? How, exactly, had all of them wound up in this situation? They had just been a collective of stupid kids in New York City, who had met by sheer random happenstance, and now they were in the midst of a problem far bigger than themselves... like an assassination attempt on the glue that, like it or not, held them all together.

"If the family doesn't want us there, we leave," Aaron murmured as he collected his coat.

"That's why you're walking in first," Thomas told him, holding open the door as Senator Aaron Burr, Senior Senator from New York, stepped out into the hall of the Capitol, the hallways eerily silent as Secret Service had locked out the normal gaggle of press, interns, and the public that wandered up and down the halls. "You're getting punched in the face before me."

There was a roll of his eyes as the two began to walk down the hall, headed toward a back exit of the Capitol. But as they walked, Aaron said, mostly to himself, "He didn't have fifty dollars in his pocket."

"What?"

"The podcast, his son's podcast. He said Alexander had fifty dollars in his pocket, and he didn't," Aaron continued, taking a turn toward a staircase that led to the back parking lot. "He couldn't even afford the train fare to Columbia when he got off the train from Penn Station."

* * *

**AARON**

_New York City._

_Fall. Past._

* * *

Aaron typically didn’t stop for confused looking tourists in the city. Indeed, he (as a general rule) avoided them like the plague. He rarely had time to entertain questions about how to find Broadway, the Empire State Building, or Chinatown. 

But on today, of all days—a day where he was running late to campus, a day where he had little to no time to waste, Aaron made the mistake of stopping after a fellow young man bumped into him on the street—obviously a tourist, because he quickly (in odd, accented English) said, in an apologetic tone, “Shit – I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

He was thin, with large dark eyes and dark hair, holding a bag over his shoulder. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days, and as Aaron examined him critically, he looked as if he had just gotten off a long-distance train. And, seeing as they were directly outside of Penn Station, it was a safe guess to assume that the fellow young man had spent the last day or two on an Amtrak.

“It’s fine,” Aaron said finally, letting his eyes linger for a moment or two before turning to part ways. “Have a nice—”

“Hey, wait—uh, sorry.” And, suddenly, the young man was in front of him, bursting with an exhausting amount of energy that caused Aaron to purse his lips together, irritated at being interrupted again. “I know you’re probably busy—”

“Astute observation,” Aaron interrupted dryly.

“—but I’m trying to make it to Columbia and I just got here, and I have no fucking idea where I’m going, so – uh.” The young man paused before shifting his bag, offering a hand to shake, accompanied by a grin that was clearly designed to win people over. It was almost endearing, if the idiot wasn’t making him late. “I’m Alex.”

Aaron stared at the offered hand before lifting his gaze to stare at the young man—Alex—incredulously. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s short for Alexander. Hamilton. My name’s Alexander Hamilton.” He said it with great purpose, the words taking on a life of their own with his accent. And, for some reason, it made Aaron pause to talk to him for a few moments longer, though he did glance at his watch to check the time. He could afford two more minutes. But when Aaron didn’t shake his hand, Alex retracted it without a second thought, seemingly not bothered—or, perhaps, used to being ignored. “I just got here, the train was running late – it broke down in Virginia or something, the United States is way too big to – anyway, the point is, I have to make it to Columbia for orientation.”

That was enough to catch Aaron’s attention, and he sighed before he looked toward the nearby subway entrance, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to offer. “You’re a new student?”

“Yeah, yeah – are you heading that way, maybe? Or if you could tell me where to find a subway map, I’d appreciate—”

“I’m heading to orientation, too,” Aaron interrupted, in a long-suffering tone, but it was hard to ignore the sudden brightness in Alex’s eyes—gratitude, at finding someone heading the same direction. “So, luckily for you, we’re heading in the same direction.” And, after a moment or two of pause, Aaron finally reached out his hand, offering to shake. “Aaron Burr.” And, feeling slightly bad about his initial standoffishness, considering what Alexander had said, he added in a slightly warmer tone, “Welcome to New York, Alexander.”

There was only a split second before Alex shook his hand with a surprising firmness. _Already something to prove_ , Aaron noted, before letting go of Alex’s hand, inclining his head toward the subway entrance. But they only made it a few steps before Alex said, “So where’s the Empire State—”

“Don’t ruin it.”

They headed down into the bowels of the city, and Aaron helped Alex buy a metrocard... which Aaron wound up buying for him, as Alex didn't yet have a debit card, and whatever card he had was not working in the machine. Aaron had the sneaking suspicion that Alex had no money at all, and the thought that this was some sort of scam did not escape him... but for some reason, Aaron felt the lost young man was telling the truth. 

It took a few minutes for the train to rush by, and Aaron quickly navigated the platform to find an open door, pulling Alex into it just as the door began to close. Once they found a seat, Aaron considered just putting on his headphones and riding it out, but he soon turned slightly to Alex, curiosity overriding his need to be anti-social. “So where are you from?”

“Nevis and Saint Kitts.” Alex responded easily enough, though his eyes were darting around the train, absorbing everything, fixating on certain people and signs for longer moments than others. It was exhausting, to watch him take everything in, but then again, New York City was something of a spectacle if you had never been before. “Nevis properly, though. That’s where I was born, anyway.”

“Nevis,” Aaron repeated, mulling it over in his mind. Where was Nevis? It sounded familiar, and after a few more seconds, it suddenly hit him as to why. “In the Caribbean? Hurricane Velacruz hit that area last year, didn’t it?”

“Same island, and I don’t remember the name of the hurricane.” Aaron wasn’t entirely sure Alex was lying or not, but he elected not to press. Confirmation that Aaron was correct in naming the right island was more than enough, anyway. “I’ve never left it before I came here. Nevis is only thirty-something square miles, and Manhattan is—”

“—overcrowded and loud,” Aaron finished, earning a laugh from his newfound traveling companion, and Aaron allowed his lips to twitch into a faint smile before glancing toward the window, to glance at what stop they were at. Nearly there. “Why did you leave?”

“To come to New York City?” It was spoken as if the answer was obvious, even if the answer came in the form of a question. “Why would anyone stay?”

“It’s a long way to be away from family,” Aaron responded with a shrug, settling back into his seat, watching strangers file on and off the train as they stopped once more. “Most people choose somewhere local to go to school, stay closer to their families, their safety net."

“Most people have families.” Alex’s tone seemed shockingly nonchalant, for such a statement, and Aaron looked over at him, somewhat surprised. But Alex shrugged, shifting his bag to rest it in his lap, to make room for someone else who wanted to sit down, and he offered Aaron a slight grin, though something seemed . . . hidden, in his eyes. Some story Alex didn’t want to share. “Besides, Columbia offered me a shot, so I took it.”

“Orphan?” The question earned a slight silence, and Aaron suddenly realized that they had only met about half an hour ago, and the question seemed intrusive. And so his tone took on something more apologetic, and he continued, “I am, too.” Why was he sharing this with a stranger on the train? “My parents left me a trust to attend any university I wanted, so I went with Columbia, but—” Aaron stopped as Alex laughed suddenly, and his tone quickly turned from apologetic to defensive. “What?”

“Nothing, I’m just thinking that when I write a book about my life, I’m going to start it with ‘a bastard orphan from the Caribbean meets a trust fund baby from New York’ instead of how my life actually started.” Alex offered Aaron a grin, which ebbed the defensiveness and, in turn, caused a slight chuckle to escape as Aaron turned his attention back to the subway map over their heads. “Much better hook.”

"You're already planning your autobiography?" As Alex kept talking, Aaron was beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that Alexander Hamilton was the sort who came to the concrete jungle to make his dreams come true... which, obviously, was what a lot of people came to New York City for, but dreams died as easily as flowers without water, here. But Alex seemed to be entirely genuine, when he spoke. Like there was no question that one day, he would indeed write a book about his life. "What are you planning on doing that's worth a book?"

"Not sure yet," Alex responded, offering Aaron a grin. The train slowed to a grinding halt, and Alex rose to his feet when Aaron did, shouldering his bag as he followed him out of the train. "But it's going to be something amazing."

"Great." Aaron didn't sound impressed, but Alex didn't seem to be bothered by his lack of faith. Instead, Alex followed him through the chaotic throng of people to the stairs and turnstiles, seemingly trusting that Aaron knew where he was going, and that they were actually going to get to Columbia in one piece. "I'm sure I'll get a royalty check in the mail once you make it... come on, this way. What are you even majoring in?"

Alex slid through the turnstile, only getting his bag caught on the device once before he quickly caught up with Aaron, heading up the stairs by taking them in twos. "Economics, law, political science," Alex responded, shielding his eyes from the sunshine as he took in his first look of 116th Street. "I like math."

Aaron paused, at that, before turning to face Alex, his expression somewhat stunned. "That's three majors."

"I see you like math too," Alex responded with a bright smile, clasping Aaron on the shoulder with a hand before he began to set off toward the university, effectively pulling Aaron along with him, much to Aaron's disapproval. "Come on, hurry up, we're already running late, and I still need to meet up with my new roommates in two hours."

"I never said I was going to go _with_ you to orientation--"

But it was a useless protest, as Alex quickly walked toward the campus with Aaron in tow, still talking away about his plans for the day. And the more Alex talked, the more Aaron began to realize that, like it or not, he was now Alex's first official contact in New York City.

And, apparently, a chapter in his upcoming book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a NaNoWriMo project gone awry. It started from a modern AU of Hamilton that a friend and I chatted about, and morphed into this multi-chapter different perspective modern AU mess that it is now. Each chapter is told from a different character, there are multiple timelines, and it's a shitshow.
> 
> Seriously. Turn back now.
> 
> I'm going to update this without any real schedule. Some updates may be really quick, and some may not. It's really just being used to organize my monstrosity of notes/snippets/etc. Please do not take this seriously.


	3. GEORGE.

* * *

**GEORGE.**

_Washington D.C._

_72 Hours after Alexander Hamilton was shot._

* * *

George could not remember the last time he went so long without sleep. The war, most likely, he mused to himself as he sank slowly into the chair in the corner of the hospital room where Alexander Hamilton was lying, comatose and relatively unresponsive. He watched Alexander's chest rise and fall impassively, his hands settling into his lap as George leaned back into his chair. The slow beeping of the heart monitor was almost comforting, in a way. It meant Alexander was alive, and at this point, that was all George could ask of him.

It had been a whirlwind three days, full of emergency plane flights, panicked grandchildren, and crying. But George, as he tended to do, navigated all of it with a well-practiced calm and ease.

After all, Alexander Hamilton was going to survive. There was simply no other option.

It had taken some doing, to convince Eliza to leave his side. But eventually she had done so, after Martha coaxed her into coming with her to the cafeteria to eat some amount of dinner. This had left George alone with Alexander, which he had agreed to do without hesitation. Martha had been hesitant to leave him here by himself, but George had insisted that she take time for herself, too.

A moment of quiet, and calm, was what they all needed.

Still, as George watched Alexander breathe (or, rather, the machine that was hooked up to him breathe), he felt an odd pressure in his chest. The normally energetic, exhausting, quasi-manic Alexander, lifeless as the grave... it felt impossibly _wrong_ , sitting here, watching him in silence. And, for the first time since Alexander had been shot, George was finally alone with him.

He felt an odd urge to speak to him. Foolish, George thought to himself, as he allowed his eyes to wander toward the door, where security was posted outside to ensure Alexander's safety. The doctors had already told them both that there was a relatively high chance that Alexander may never wake up, which begged the question of whether or not their words even reached him. Martha swore that they did, and had spent her time in between comforting Eliza and taking care of the children talking to Alexander, at great length, to reassure him that he was going to be fine. 

Listening to her, quite frankly, was almost too much to bear, but George would never tell her to be quiet.

Watching Alexander, though, prompted something in him. He was a man of few words, in the end, but Alexander was not. And if the roles were reversed, Alexander would surely be speaking at him. Saying... something profound, and prophetic, certainly. Something worthy of George Washington's end.

But, for the life of him, George could not figure out what to say. Nothing prophetic, or powerful, came to mind. A string of Bible verses, perhaps. Memories that crossed through his mind of when he may have been too harsh, with Alexander, or too blunt. Not comforting enough, or loving, or doting. No, that wasn't George's role, in Alexander's life. He was a firm hand when Alexander needed guidance, not a soft touch.

What did Alexander need?

"I can't get you out of this one, son," George murmured to himself, allowing his eyes to wander back to Alexander, who remained motionless in his bed. "There's no fight l can join, no bail money I can post, no phone call I can make. You're on your own."

Predictably, no response. But now that George had spoken the words into existence, he rose to his feet to move closer to the bed. Not quite near enough to touch, but enough that George could look over Alexander properly. Pale, without his glasses, hair askew. The mask over his face obscured most of his features, and while the nurses had assured George that Alexander was not in pain and was simply sleeping, George couldn't possibly believe them.

There was nothing more unnatural than Alexander Hamilton staying still.

"You are a survivor, though," George continued, his voice still soft as he reached out to adjust a sleeve on Alexander's robe, carefully tugging it down to cover the IVs. His skin felt cold to the touch. Blood loss, most likely, but George shoved the thought of Alexander bleeding out on that stage from his mind. Thinking on it would not change what had happened. "You came into this world fighting. I expect you to do the same before you choose to leave it."

Silence.

Unbearable silence.

When was the last time Alexander Hamilton had ever been silent, in his presence? 

* * *

**GEORGE.**

_New York City._

_Past. Fall._

* * *

By the time students had taken their seats, it was three minutes past two. George waited until the door closed before he stood, and as he did so, the chattering in the lecture hall quieted to a hush as he spoke, his words purposeful and eloquent. 

“Good afternoon,” he said mildly, and he earned a half-hearted chorus of “good afternoons” in return. “Now, I know most of you have already begun your semester and most of you are on your way out the door. . . but I always begin the first class with a basic roll. Name, where you’re from, and why you’re enrolled in this class." And, at the pointed gaze of a young woman in the front row, George added, "Preferred pronouns, if you'd like." 

There was a soft collection of groaning and grumbling at the notion that they had to introduce themselves, but George ignored it in lieu of turning back to his desk. He collected up the list of students enrolled, flipping through it neatly before turning back to face the class, focusing on the same young woman who had glared at him in the first seat, on the left, and set his pen to paper. “We’ll start with you, Ms. Schuyler.”

“Angelica,” said the young woman graciously, and George offered her a faint smile in recognition as he checked off the box. “She/her, New York City, and I have a passionate interest in Latin-American revolution.”

“Of course you do,” George murmured to himself, moving to the next individual, sitting next to Angelica. He had rushed in a few moments after class was technically supposed to start, and was just unfolding a notebook when George inclined his head. “Sir?”

“What?” the young man asked, blinking with large, dark eyes. Thin, George noted, with dark hair and circles underneath his eyes . . . wearing a sweatshirt that was a bit too big, and carrying books that looked to be far too advanced for how old he looked. When Angelica rolled her eyes, her fellow student seemed to realize it was his turn to speak, and he quickly sat up at more attention. “Name, where I’m from, and why I’m here, sir?”

“That would be it,” George responded dryly, briefly scanning down the list of names. He didn’t recognize the boy . . . transfer student, perhaps? But just as his eyes landed on a name he did not recognize, the boy began to speak.

“Oh – well, Alexander Hamilton, unimportant, and I was kicked out of the other three history classes because I tested out of them, and this was the only one left, and I need a generic basic course to complete my major according to the career services office." The young man—Alexander—dug through his backpack for a pen before he seemed to realize that the class was staring at him, and he hesitated before glancing back up toward George, who was watching him with arched eyebrows. “Are we doing nicknames, too, because I really just go by—”

“You were kicked out of three history classes on the second day of the semester?” George interrupted, his tone edging into slight incredulity.

“Yes, sir,” Alexander responded, and to George’s absolute amazement, he seemed to be serious. “I’m not here to waste time.” He paused, then, before finding his pen, setting it down on his desk and crossing his arms over his chest, watching George somewhat expectantly, before offering the most subtle of winks towards Angelica. “And I, too, have a passionate interest in Latin American revolutions.”

“May I transfer classes, sir?” Angelica asked, immediately raising her hand, looking irritated at the sudden snickering from the rest of the class at Alexander’s not-too-subtle comment.

“No, but you can move your seat,” George murmured to himself, checking off another box. “Next?”

The class was only an hour long, but George quickly discovered that Alexander was not joking when he said he had tested out of every other history class. Indeed, the boy’s knowledge of the world seemed ridiculously expansive for an eighteen-year-old. He spoke with authority, eloquence, and persuasiveness, and seemed to engage with ideas that his fellow classmates weren’t quite able to grasp. By the end of the hour, the rest of the class (sans, perhaps, Angelica) was sick of listening to him, and George watched the class filter out of the room until it was only him and Alexander, who was attempting to fit his notebooks back into the messenger bag he had come in with.

“You know, you never answered my question, son,” George said after a long moment, moving around his desk to lean against it, watching Alexander’s hands hesitate only the briefest moment before resuming packing up his bag. “Where are you from?”

“Unimportant,” Alexander responded absently, but after a few more moments of silence, he worried his lower lip before looking over at George, his eyes holding some level of wariness. A natural mistrust of authority, maybe, or a reluctance to share more information about himself than absolutely necessary. It only sparked more of a curiosity, in George... the eyes of Alexander Hamilton were not the ones of an eighteen year old, but one who had been on the earth far longer. Finally, Alexander continued, returning his attention to his messenger bag. “An island in the Caribbean. Nevis.”

“Nevis,” George repeated to himself, mulling it over as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You recently came to the United States, then?”

“Yes, sir. A week ago.” Alex finally managed to close his bag before turning to collect the remainder of his things, stacking papers into a neat pile before sliding them into a folder. “And I have to go, I really have to go meet with—”

"Are you living on campus?” George interrupted, watching Alexander carefully. He could see the frustration in Alex’s shoulders, at being interrupted once again—something told George that Alexander was simultaneously both used to and abhorred being interrupted and spoken over. “Or did you find a place to room elsewhere?”

“Yeah, I – uh, found an ad with a bunch of other students living in Harlem.” Alex shouldered his bag and collected up his things in both of his arms, turning to face George properly, almost silently asking permission to leave the conversation but not wanting to be rude by just leaving. “That’s where I’m going, I’m meeting up with them to figure out whether it’s a good fit or not.” Alexander paused for half a moment before continuing, offering George a tentative grin—testing the waters for a joke. “I’m usually not a good fit, so I guess I better figure out how to be tolerable between now and then.”

George’s lips twitched into a faint smile, in return, before he watched Alexander for another long moment—and just when Alexander opened his mouth to continue speaking, he turned back toward his desk, collecting up his own papers. “I’ll walk you to the train,” George said after a moment, tucking his papers underneath his arm as he gestured with his free hand, indicating Alex could leave the room first. “And you can tell me about Nevis on the way.”

“I—oh, that’s not necessary, sir—”

“I’ve never been to the Caribbean, I find it quite necessary,” George interrupted mildly, walking down the hall . . . and, to his satisfaction, he heard Alexander’s footsteps quickly following. “And I would think with your passionate interest in Latin American revolutions that you would be chomping at the bit to wax poetic about your area of the world. Keep up, Mr. Hamilton, I need to make it home for dinner.”

Alexander caught up to his stride rather easily, and George had almost expected Alexander to find the quickest route to the train without his incessant questioning. However, to George's surprise, Alexander kept pace, and (perhaps not so surprisingly) kept talking. "Why do you want to know about where I'm from?" Alexander asked -- and, again, George heard the wariness in his tone, the inherent suspicion in being questioned. "You could just Google it."

"I could, or I could ask you." George paused at a crosswalk, and glanced down at Alexander, who looked back up at him with a slightly less guarded expression. He was curious, and George felt a vague sense of satisfaction at Alexander's sudden decision to engage in the conversation. "You seem to have no shortage of things to say, and I'd rather hear it from you than Wikipedia."

"Maybe I wrote the Wikipedia," Alexander retorted, adjusting his bag on his shoulder as they crossed the street, his pace quickening to keep up with George's long stride. "I can't think of anyone else who would. There's nothing on the island anymore."

But as soon as Alexander said it, George could see his shoulders stiffen. A silent grimace, in which he realized he had said too much, and George paused outside of the subway stop that he knew Alexander would need to take a bit further uptown, to Harlem. 

"Anymore?" George repeated. "What happened to it?"

A quick side-step, as Alexander brushed past him toward the subway. Clearly the wrong thing to say... and George was about to hail a cab and tally his losses when he heard Alexander's voice, just before he vanished into the depths of the city below.

"Like I said--you can go ahead and Google it."

* * *

Martha Washington was a diminutive woman, and to those who did not know her, or foolishly underestimated her, would assume that she could be blown over by a relatively strong breeze. However, George had the good fortune of both knowing her, and adoring her, and could pick up on the undercurrent of danger in her tone as she called from the kitchen:

"What on Earth are you reading that has delayed you coming to the table for dinner?"

Playing chicken with Martha was a dangerous affair, but George knew when he could pick and choose his battles. He rarely did so (as most battles with Martha he lost, unequivocally), but George did not move from his seat as he scrolled through the Wikipedia article on Nevis, responding to Martha with an even-keeled, "The Wikipedia artcle on Nevis."

Footsteps came from the kitchen, and George could feel Martha's weight against his back as she leaned over him, to take a look at the computer screen. Curly hair framed her face, as her brow furrowed, her hands finding his shoulders as she began to read. "Nevis? Where is that?"

"An island in the Caribbean...have you met Alexander Hamilton, yet?" Martha, too, worked at Columbia, but in the career services department... and George settled back into his chair, to look up at her, searching her gaze for recognition of the name. "Thin, looks as if he hasn't slept in a week."

"Alexander..." Martha mused to herself before crossing her arms, thinking deeply. "I think -- oh! Yes! Well, no." Martha shook her head, loose curls framing her face. "I haven't met him yet, but I have a meeting with him next week... the poor thing accidentally signed up for three different majors, I think he misread the form--"

"He didn't misread the form," George interrupted, returning his attention back to the computer screen, clicking on the embedded article to Hurricane Veracruz. "He got kicked out of three history classes because he tested out of them... or so he says, I think he kicked himself out because he was bored."

"How on Earth can you take three majors at the same--and what does Nevis have to do with Alexander Hamilton?"

"I have never met a young man so willing to shout from the rooftops about every other problem in the world, but so unwilling to talk about himself," George murmured, scrolling down the article on Hurricane Veracruz until he landed on a collection of images showing a destroyed island... trees strewn across demolished and washed out roads, telephone poles askew on previously idyllic beaches. "I tried to ask him where he was from, and he told me to Google it."

There was a silence before Martha shifted to lean over his shoulder again, catching his gaze with a knowing look. "And you... decided to Google it?"

"Of course I decided to Google it," George said in a (less than firm) retort, gesturing vaguely at the computer screen. "It gives me context into dealing with someone who obviously has an attitude problem and an aversion to authority."

Martha allowed her gaze to return to the computer screen, and George watched her expression morph from slightly teasing to somber in an instant. "This is where he came from? This place?"

"According to Mr. Hamilton's assertion and his petulant order to _Google it--_ "

"Oh, George, we have to invite him over for dinner, this looks horrible," Martha murmured, reaching over to take the mouse and scroll down quickly, revealing more images of destruction. "This was a Category 5 hurricane, and he's here with... does he have any family? Where is he living?"

"With some students -- Martha, we are not inviting him over for dinner because of a Wikipedia article--"

"Well, _someone_ needs to eat my food, seeing as you've decided to go on a hunger strike to read this article--"

"When in my _life_ have I ever refused to eat your food?" George responded incredulously, but it was far too late -- Martha had already straightened and moved back toward the kitchen, waving a hand dismissively in response. " _Martha_."

"You will invite that boy over to dinner, or I am going to do it myself next week when I ask him about his three majors!" came the response from the kitchen, which prompted a sigh as George finally stood to follow his wife into the kitchen, where the table was set for dinner, and Martha was already serving the food. "Sit down before I decide to invite his friends."

"I doubt he has any friends with that attitude," George murmured underneath his breath, but given Martha's pointed expression, it was not said quietly enough. So he resigned himself to sit with a sigh, waiting for Martha to sit across from him before inclining his head to pray.

Both to bless the meal, and to survive whatever project Martha Washington had in store for this bizarre child from Nevis.


	4. LAFAYETTE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW:** This chapter deals with and references symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

* * *

**LAFAYETTE.**

_Washington D.C._

_72 Hours after Alexander Hamilton was shot._

* * *

It was beginning to rain, Lafayette noted as he watched the sky turn from a blue to a dusky orange. His fingers drummed against the arm of the chair he was settled in, though it felt wrong, to be sitting. Every single nerve in his body was tuned to snap, and the familiar tension that was spreading along his shoulders. The urge to duck and cover, the rattling of rain against the window... why was he sitting near the window, at all? He should be --

There was a sudden warmth, on his knee, and Lafayette glanced down to see the head of the family Labrador retriever, Darcy. The dog's tail wagged slowly, and Lafayette offered the dog a faint smile before settling his hand on top of the dog's head, scratching ears idly. "Hello," he murmured, itching behind the dog's ears. "A long day, for you, I would imagine."

The dog, predictably, did not respond. But the warm weight on his knee and the slow breathing of the dog soothed his nerves, and gave him some level of focus. A clarity, in the hammering of his heart and the crawling of his skin.

He could still hear the gunshot, ringing in his ears. And he could see Alexander... animated, excited Alexander, speaking with just as much passion and fervor as he had when he was eighteen years old, get knocked backwards, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

And then everything, absolutely everything, went to absolute hell.

Secret Service appeared out of nowhere, and attempted to drag him off the stage, but Lafayette had refused. His memory of what happened in the aftermath was fuzzy, at best... he remembered Alexander struggling to breathe on the stage, and Lafayette attempting to stem the bleeding while telling him to stop trying to talk. He had pulled the podium down in front of them, to shield them from any other incoming fire... his old instincts, from combat, kicking into immediate effect.

And Alexander... poor, beloved Alexander, struggling to breathe... Lafayette had known Alexander Hamilton for an immense amount of time. He had seen Alexander at his best, and at his worst, but he had never once seen Alexander Hamilton, the mighty powerhouse he was, show an ounce of fear in the face of despair, loss, and anguish.

But, for the first time in the over twenty-some-odd years Lafayette had known him, Alexander's eyes were full of fear.

 _"I don't want to go."_ That was something he had choked out, before Lafayette had told him to shut up. _"Tell Eliza--"_

Tell Eliza what, Lafayette had no idea. Alexander had been taken off the stage after that, and Lafayette had been dragged down after him, unceremoniously shoved into an armored car, and brought to the nearest hospital. Alexander's blood on his hands, and his best friend brought to the hospital, to fight for his life, while he was locked in the White House, where he had sat, for the last twenty-four hours.

He knew he should go see the children, but Lafayette had the sneaking suspicion that Angelica (his beloved, powerful, strong, witty Angelica) had told everyone to leave him be. He supposed he should be thankful for it, but the quiet (in sharp contrast to the chaos in the streets) was almost unnerving... particularly because he knew that, somewhere in this antiquated historic house, were a bunch of children (Hamilton and Schuyler alike) that required some level of comfort.

So, eventually, Lafayette rose to his feet, patting Darcy once more on the head before he exited into the hallway, greeted by two Secret Service members who automatically followed him down the hall. _Where were you earlier?_ Lafayette wanted to say, but he (perhaps wisely) kept it to himself... after all, the gunshot had come from absolutely nowhere, and only Alexander knew what threats he had received in the weeks prior to his talk. For all Lafayette knew, they had both walked onto that stage into a firefight, and only one of them could be any the wiser.

Darcy the dog followed silently, right at Lafayette's heel, as he moved toward the West Wing of the White House. He wasn't entirely sure _why_ he was going to the West Wing... Angelica was surely busy managing the crisis that had just landed on her doorstep, but some itch underneath his skin drove him to check on her, to make sure that she was okay. She certainly wasn't, given what had happened... Eliza was still at the hospital, and Alexander's fate was still unknown. And though Angelica Schuyler had long since sworn her love to another, there was never going to be any true eradication of adoration toward Alexander Hamilton from her. Nor should there be.

Alexander, truly, was special.

* * *

**LAFAYETTE**

_New York City._

_Fall. Past._

* * *

The bar was bustling, full of students and do-nothings alike, as Lafayette dropped a round of beers in front of his collective of merry miscreants. There were three of them, all crowded around a small table in the corner of a bar in the Village, and Lafayette leaned his chair against the back wall as he took a drink.

"What are we going to do about our living situation?" he asked, casting a glance at the other two individuals seated with him, who looked less cheerful than their colleague. "We have little less than a week before the rent is due... are we splitting it into three, or are we going to find a warm body on the street to take whoever-their-name's place?"

"Shit, I'll take a cold body, at this point," the young man to his right grumbled, taking a far deeper drink of the beer provided before he coughed, clearing his throat and wiping away the foam from his lips with the back of a ragged arm of his sweatshirt. "We're fucked if we don't find someone."

"Be a bit more optimistic, Mulligan," Lafayette chided, and Hercules Mulligan rolled his eyes as he took another drink of his beer. "I would not say we are totally fucked, but--"

"Moderately," the second young man said, picking up his mug and offering Lafayette a warm grin in thanks, which Lafayette returned with a raise of his glass. "I'd say we're moderately fucked."

" _Moderately_ , thank you, Laurens--"

"It's bullshit that rent is this high in the city anyway," Mulligan interrupted in irritation, putting down his mug with an unceremonious 'thud,' and John Laurens offered a hum of agreement. "How the fuck are we paying this much for an apartment? I practically live in a fuckin' closet."

"I definitely live in a closet," Lafayette agreed, and Laurens responded with a snort of laughter as Lafayette rested his elbows on the table, looking amused at his comrade's sour attitude. "But what are we to do, hm? We cannot rebuild the city in a day, nor can we combat the realities of gentrification within the next week. We must find someone--"

"Someone sane, with a good sense of humor, who won't call the cops on us coming home late," Laurens said mildly, setting down his own mug to participate in the conversation. "Remember how you almost got locked up for sneaking in the window on the fire escape because you lost your keys, Mulligan?"

"I didn't lose my key, I got _mugged--_ "

"Ah, yes," Lafayette interrupted with a bark of laughter, as he raised his glass toward Mulligan, in a faux salute. "Raise a glass to Hercules Mulligan, who was mugged for a singular key to the worst apartment in Harlem, may God rest his soul."

"May God rest his soul," Laurens intoned, raising his glass as well, and the table soon devolved into a mixture of snorted laughter and the odd curse from Mulligan. But as the laughter died down, Laurens leaned back in his chair, his curled hair falling into his eyes as he let his gaze wander the room, his expression melting into something thoughtful. "The new semester starts up soon... I still have no idea what the hell I'm going to be doing with my life."

"Or how you're paying back your student loans," Mulligan quipped, and Lafayette rolled his eyes; Mulligan, unlike Laurens and Lafayette, wasn't enrolled in Columbia, but CUNY, and therefore had a much better deal on his tuition than the two of them at the private university. "What's political science pay nowadays, Laurens?"

"Go fuck yourself, Mulligan," Laurens said helpfully, raising his glass of beer to Mulligan in another salute. 

"Now, now," Lafayette scolded, wiping up a bit of loose beer off the side of his glass as Mulligan flipped Laurens off (lovingly, of course). "We have more important things to plan, like what trouble we are going to get into this upcoming fall... I heard word that the Dean is threatening to revoke the university's policy for financial aid for undocumented immigrants."

"I did too," Laurens murmured, his eyes shifting into a stormier expression as he took a sip of his beer. "This entire country is going to hell... we're going to have to organize a shutdown of the university, or something. Opening weekend, maybe?"

"Hell, let's do it tomorrow," Mulligan said, draping an arm across the back of Lafayette's chair, who glanced over at Mulligan in slight surprise. "What?" Mulligan retorted, finishing off his mug of beer with a flourish. "I fucking hate the Dean of Columbia just as much as the students do. Do you know how much that dude is paid, in comparison to everyone else? It's ridiculous, and they're charging you idiots up the ass for classes you don't even need."

"Well, that is a bit harsh," Lafayette intoned, though Laurens seemed to agree with Mulligan (to a point), as he nodded in response. "I consider the classes _I_ take extraordinarily useful... but you are correct, _mon ami_ , in how much he is paid. It is terrible, particularly with the policies he seems to be enacting... we should be able to move throughout the world without such barriers." And Lafayette sighed, the exhale long and low. "Why can the world not just be free?" 

"Hell if I know," Mulligan said dully, shifting in his seat to flag down the waitress, to get another round of beers for the table. "Something has got to give, though."

"It's time people like us run the show, isn't it?" Laurens ventured, running a finger along the rim of the mug as he let his eyes wander around the bar again. More and more students were filtering in, some Lafayette recognized, and some he did not. But as the place became more packed, Laurens had no trouble being heard, though Lafayette leaned in a bit closer anyway. "I mean, the guy who's in charge of this district in Congress has been there for, what? Eight years? Ten?"

Lafayette opened his mouth to respond to Laurens when another voice cut through the din, answering the question for him. A new voice, confident and sure of himself:

"Fourteen, actually, and he's done nothing but pass the same bullshit housing policies that are causing your rental crisis."

The three looked up to see an individual none of them had met before... a thin young man, with dark eyes, wearing a sweater with the sleeves rolled up, holding a half-empty mug of beer. His dark hair was pulled back, and Lafayette could see a distinct five o'clock shadow... barely. All in all, the individual looked like he could do with a good meal and a halfway decent drink. 

More importantly:

"Who are you?" Mulligan asked, a bit bewildered at the interruption.

"Have we met?" Laurens asked, shifting in his seat curiously, his eyes scanning the stranger's features briefly before looking over at Lafayette, who shrugged, equally confused. And to Lafayette's surprise, the stranger pulled up a chair, sitting down quickly and dropping down to join them without invitation. And once the stranger had done so, Laurens blinked, setting down his glass. "Can we help you?"

"You go to Columbia, right?" The strange young man did not bother waiting for a response, and continued talking, pushing his way into a conversation that had not been intended to him without so much as an ounce of shame. "I heard you talking about the new immigration policy, and _I_ was thinking, why don't we organize a protest and shut down the square? Show 'em that we're serious about not putting up with his bullshit, you know?"

There was a short silence before Lafayette leaned forward, to catch the gaze of the young man, arching his eyebrows. "A cute idea, my new friend, but you still have not answered our question: who are you? You sound as if you are fresh off the boat."

"You sound the same," the stranger retorted, which earned a laugh from Lafayette, and a casual shrug. After all, the young man was correct; Lafayette's accent was just as thick as this strange person's, and the pot was definitely calling the kettle black. "My name's Alexander Hamilton," he continued, offering a quick grin -- a cautious one, Lafayette noted, one meant to test the waters. "I came here to meet up with some people who were offering me a room, but they never showed up."

"Poor manners," Lafayette tutted, shifting to make room for their new round of beers, and offering a warm smile to the (slightly flustered) waitress. "How did you track them down?"

"Craigslist, I think--"

"So you, instead of going back to wherever you're staying after getting stood up by some random assholes on Craigslist, approached a table of strangers, and suggested starting a riot on Columbia's campus," Mulligan offered, leaning back in his chair, staring at Alexander with no small amount of incredulity. "How's that working out for you?"

"You guys haven't kicked me out, yet" Alexander responded with a slight grin, taking up his drink to take a sip. "So I'd say it's going about as well as to be expected."

Lafayette, for half a moment, had thought Alexander to just be another student. One that needed a place to stay, had found a familiar set of voices, and they would likely never cross paths again. But as Lafayette moved to grab his new beer, and was about to change the subject, Alexander Hamilton decided to continue to talk. And when he spoke, Lafayette shifted his attention to listen... at first, out of some amount of politeness, but after the first few words, he was captivated.

Whoever the hell this random child of the islands was, he made you _listen_.

"Are you really planning a protest on campus? Can I join?" But before anyone could say yes or no, Alexander set down his glass, rested his elbows on the table, and leaned forward to speak. "I've been reading a lot about the political climate on campus, and I've joined a few of the organizations, but breaking into the leadership of them is harder than I thought... nobody wants to listen to anyone who doesn't have any money. I don't have shit, but I'm smart, and I work my ass off, and that should be enough, but it's not. It's a bunch of classist, racist shit, and I was thinking shutting down the campus to call attention to the housing crisis, gentrification, the immigration issues... it's fucked, _completely fucked_ that students have to struggle to pay their bills in the greatest city in the world, and someone should do something about it, so _why not us_?"

There was a silence, after that, as Lafayette, Mulligan, and Laurens stared at Alexander. And, for the first time since the random encounter, Lafayette could see the tiniest inkling of sheepishness in Alexander's features, and he immediately leaned backward, his fingers fidgeting on his glass.

"... sorry, I just -- this is the first time since I got to this country that I heard people that sounded like me, so I thought that maybe I could --"

"Do you still need a place to live?" Laurens interrupted.

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Mulligan asked, incredulous, whipping his attention back to Laurens, stunned. "Did you just ask him if he needed a place to live, as in --"

"We just so happen to have a spare room in our place, as our last roommate was horribly boring and doubly problematic," Lafayette interrupted in turn, leaning forward to catch Alexander's gaze, offering him a warm smile. "And I have a good feeling about you, what do you think, Laurens?"

"I don't think he's going to call the cops on Mulligan for losing his keys," Laurens said with half a laugh, as he collected up his drink. "That was our criteria, wasn't it?"

"I didn't _lose my--_ "

"Are you serious?" Alexander asked, stunned as Lafayette signaled down the waitress for yet another round. "I've -- you have no idea who I am, you want me to come live with you? Why?"

"I like your name, and your accent," Lafayette informed him, raising a glass to clink against Alexander's, who stared at Lafayette with increasing incredulity. "We immigrants have to stick together in this hellish landscape, _non_? At worst, I grow to hate you, and I kick you out the next week. For now, stay with us?"

"We need someone like you to help plan our riot -- come on, Mulligan," Laurens chided, leaning over to clasp Mulligan on the shoulder. "He's the most interesting person we've met so far, we've got to at least let him crash for a few nights, the guy's got nowhere else to go."

"We're not a boarding house -- no offense, dude," Mulligan said in an aside to Alexander, who quickly shook his head, seemingly taking no offense from Mulligan's hesitation. "But we've got bills to pay, and we don't even know if you can pay rent."

"Oh, I've got, uh..." Alexander put down his mug before shifting into his bag, digging through it quickly. For what, Lafayette had no idea, until Alexander yanked out a worn notebook, flipping it open to what appeared to be a handwritten spreadsheet of sorts. An accounting of balances, from first glance. "I've got enough for a month at around $900, is that enough to make rent at your place? And I'm interviewing for a few jobs, and I've got some aid out of the school, so I'll pay rent, I can do that."

"Look at him, Mulligan, he is so excited," Lafayette scolded his friend, who looked suitably less suspicious now that he knew Alexander may be able to at least pay his fair share. "He is new to America, we should help our neighbor... he is one of us, I can feel it." And, with that, Lafayette seized his glass and raised it, to clink against Laurens' with a laugh. "We may regret our decision tomorrow, but tonight, we may celebrate the newest addition to our band of misfits."

"Alexander Hamilton," Laurens said with half a laugh, clinking his glass against Lafayette's before taking a drink. "The stranger that'll save us from eviction for the next month, I think we can live with that, can't we?"

"For at least the next month," Mulligan finally admitted, clasping Alexander on the shoulder as he shoved another beer toward the young man, who eagerly accepted it. "I can't believe we actually resorted to just grabbing a random warm body off the street..."

"But a fun warm body," Lafayette responded, draping an arm around Laurens' shoulders as he observed Alexander. "One that we can walk to class with and plan the downfall of the bourgeoisie, and then go and get drinks with after."

Lafayette did not know it then, but for as long as he lived, he would never forget the expression of sheer, unadulterated joy on Alexander's face.


	5. ANGELICA.

* * *

**ANGELICA.**

_Washington D.C._

_72 Hours after Alexander Hamilton was shot._

* * *

When her nephew left the Oval Office, Angelica Schuyler allowed herself to sink down into her chair, fingers trembling against the antique wood of the Resolute desk. Secret Service, always lingering in the corner, said absolutely nothing about this momentary show of weakness, and good on them, she supposed. That was what they were paid for -- to protect her, in every sense of the word.

She needed to address what had happened, except she still had no idea _what_ had happened. Alexander Hamilton had only taken the job of Secretary of the Treasury on the condition that he could continue his work, his _true_ passion; advocacy, organizing, and public speaking. Angelica hadn't seen a problem with it, at the time -- she needed a genius to fix the broken economy, and Alexander was that genius. And even three days ago, when Alexander had strode onto that stage with Lafayette in tow, to celebrate the incoming flood of diversity in government... to preach his proverbial word about the importance of immigrants in the United States, to tell _his_ story, Angelica had tuned in at home to watch Alexander, and to watch her husband, celebrate their collective victory.

They had won. They had managed to secure the prize.

What had Alex been saying, before the gunshot?

 _Too long have we been limiting ourselves on the basis of our skin color, on the basis of our birthplace, on the basis of the language we speak and the flags we wear... and yet, I stand here today as a testament to the fact that I made it, so long as we give people the chance to make it._ What an arrogant, insufferable know-it-all, and yet Angelica had been hanging on to every single word that came out of Alexander's mouth, just as it has always been since they met.

And, for all she knew, that could be the last thing he spoke to a world that did not deserve him.

Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes, and Angelica quickly drew in a shuddered breath before she spoke. "Have we found who did it? Who shot him."

"No, Madame President," came the even-tempered response of the agent in the corner. "We have some leads, but nothing definitive. Secretary Hamilton didn't report any recent threats in the days prior, so the trail may be colder than we would like. But we have every available woman and man on the ground searching for them. We'll get them."

Angelica was silent for a moment before she rose to her feet, drawing in a deep breath. Alexander was in the hospital, fighting for his life. Eliza was at his side. Lafayette was with the children, somewhere in this damnable house. Her nephew and nieces, safe and sound. What should she do? What did she need to do?

_What would Alexander do?_

The thought suddenly cleared the fog that had clouded her mind since he had been shot. What _would_ Alexander do? With everything falling apart around him, with the proverbial weight of the world on his shoulders, in the face of insurmountable loss... what would Alexander Hamilton do? Would he shut himself in, remain silent, and quit? Would he fade into nothingness and allow himself the time to breathe, or would he get back up and keep fighting?

There was really only one answer, to that. Alexander Hamilton, quit? 

"Get my press secretary in here," Angelica said quietly, her eyes still fixated on the closed laptop on the desk. "I need every single network to clear their schedule for a prime-time address. The Rose Garden, not the Oval Office."

"Ma'am?" The agent sounded incredulous, and Angelica couldn't blame him for the doubt in his tone. An attempted assassination on the Secretary of the Treasury, and the President of the United States wanted to go on television? In public? It sounded absurd. "Your press secretary is handling the White House briefing on the incident in--"

"I don't give a damn about feeding the vultures," Angelica interrupted, lifting her eyes to stare at the agent, who immediately stood just a few centimeters straighter. "We're going on air, and I'm finishing that damn speech."

* * *

**ANGELICA.**

_New York City._

_Early Winter. Past._

* * *

Angelica insisted on taking the train on most days to Columbia, mostly because it gave her the opportunity to think. She thrived on the chaos and hectic buzz of the city, and while she most assuredly hated being alone, she enjoyed the quiet moment in the morning where she could watch people come and go on the train. It was her time to think, and to go over what she wanted to talk about in class—a silent monologue to herself.

On this day, however, she was jolted from her thoughts by someone bumping into her, and Angelica turned to tell off whoever had rudely slammed into her without saying anything, only to be greeted by a familiar pair of dark brown eyes, unusually bright and sparkling given the early hour of the morning. It caught her off-guard, staring for half a second too long, as she tried to place where this young man was familiar…

“Oh, it’s you,” Angelica said, the bored unimpressed tone sounding impressively real as she returned to her book, acting for all the world as if this man had interrupted something far more important and interesting than staring at a bunch of words on a page. “I was wondering whether or not you were going to come back.”

“—hey, you’re in my history class.” The recognition in his tone was intoxicating, but Angelica refused to look over again, turning the page of the book. She felt him come closer—out of necessity, surely, given the cramped confines of the train, but she felt her arm brush against his chest, and Angelica was soon forced to look over at him, squarely in her personal space.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone a bit flat.

“You know, you never told me your father owned half this city,” Alexander said mildly, grabbing a pole reflexively to keep from falling over, as the train shot down another tunnel. “I would’ve thought our spirited conversations in class would eventually lead to such information, but my roommates had to tell me that I pissed off the heiress of New York City.”

“We’ve had zero spirited conversations in class, and you don’t even know my name.” Why was she being so defensive, and why was she bothering to continue the conversation? But she couldn’t look away, now, almost challenging in her gaze as Alexander met it, seemingly not intimidated. “And I don’t know yours.”

“So tell me your name, Ms. Upper East Side,” Alexander responded in kind, offering her the laziest of grins.

Angelica paused, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Angelica Schuyler.”

“Alexander Hamilton, but you can call me Alex.”

“You can call me Angelica,” she responded dryly, which earned a laugh, which (despite her best efforts) earned him half a smile. “Where’s your family from?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?” Alexander asked, his tone dismissive, but Angelica could read his sudden tension in his shoulders, the bullshitting tone of his voice, the eagerness to dodge the topic. “Does it really matter that much?”

“To some people.”

“Does it matter to you?”

Angelica opened her mouth, poised to lie, and tell him that it did—to get out of this asinine conversation, and continue along her merry way, but try as she might, she couldn’t bear to lob the barb that she knew would hurt the most. “No,” Angelica admitted, finally closing her book to have a proper conversation with him. “New York City is full of a bunch of jackasses who lie their way to success on their names alone, but everybody else knows the truth. We know who works hard, and who just gets by on their father’s money.” She paused, then, caught off-guard by the playful look in his eyes, the grin on his lips. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Alexander hummed, glancing toward the subway map, taking mind of which stop he needed to get off at. “I knew you were like me, that’s all.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll see you at class, Angelica Schuyler,” came the sly response, as he slipped through the crowd, leaving an incredulous Angelica in his wake. “Save a seat for me.”

* * *

Angelica did not save a seat for him, but that did not mean she got rid of Alexander Hamilton. He was seemingly everywhere, present at every club, every university town hall, every corner. He was non-stop in his exhaustive attempts to know every single person within the university community, and try as she might, she was often in the same rooms, the same meetings, the same lecture halls. Alexander was relentless in his pursuit to accomplish whatever he came here to do, and Angelica was frequently watching him with some amount of impressed exasperation that he was actually managing to do it.

On one such day, Angelica was walking through the green, on her way to meet Eliza and Peggy for lunch when she heard her name. And, despite a little voice in her head telling her that she needed to leave on time today, she turned to see the damn devil himself, jogging to catch up with her.

“Angelica!” He slowed to a stop, bright and beaming, grinning as if he had won the lottery, but Angelica knew the look in his eyes. He wanted something out of her, and she was already prepared to do battle to deny him. “You look amazing, as always, I love the pink sweater—”

“I’m not bailing you out of jail,” Angelica said automatically, turning on her heel to keep walking. “Talk and walk at the same time, Alex, I need to meet my sisters. Hurry up.”

“Okay – alright, hang on.” Footsteps quickly followed her, and soon Alex fell in step beside her, and began to do what he did best—talk. “Come to a party tonight.”

“You chased me down the green to invite me to a party?” She paused at a crosswalk, turning to look at him, a little incredulous. “Who’s going to be at the party?”

“People,” Alex responded vaguely, waving a hand dismissively as he kept pace, continuing across the street. “My friends and I are throwing a party, and I was given exclusive authority to invite anyone I wanted, and—”

“Are you trying to set me up with someone?” Angelica interrupted, her tone affronted as she stopped in her tracks, turning to face him, eyes narrowed and scanning his face for any trace of guilt whatsoever. “Who is it? Laurens?”

“You are definitely not his type—I’m not setting you up with anyone, and I don’t have any ulterior motives, and I promise it’s just a fun night of drinks and dancing and—you can invite your sister, if you want—”

“You are staying away from my sister, Alexander Hamilton—”

“I don’t even know your sister—Angelica, come on—” Alexander grabbed at her hand, tugging her a little closer, with a grin that Angelica swore could get him out of absolutely any situation, any crime, any plan-went-wrong. “It’s just a party. Come have fun. Please?”

There was an obvious hesitation, but Angelica eventually acquiesced in a sigh, and she felt Alexander squeeze her hand in foretold victory. “When is it?”

“Tonight, I’ll text you the address—oh, and you don’t need to bring anything, is that a thing people do here? Bring things to parties?” He seemed breathless with excitement, and Angelica (still acutely aware of Alexander’s hand on hers) had to roll her eyes at his question. “Anyway, you don’t need to bring anything, just you! And your sister, if you—”

“I will push you into traffic if you bring up my sister one more time,” Angelica warned, gently detaching her hand from his. “She’s not your type.”

“You’ve got two, don’t you?” Alexander retorted in turn, following her down the steps into the subway terminal, grinning at the scoff his comment elicited. “When am I going to meet them?”

“Peggy is in high school and Eliza can do better, so… never,” Angelica responded with a warm smile, swiping her metro card with practiced ease. “Are you following me onto this train, or what? Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I lost my metro card, so—” And Angelica, now past the turnstile, turned to offer him a cheerful wave, as Alexander couldn’t follow – but he quickly leaned over the turnstile with a grin, to continue the conversation. “Tonight, 9:00 PM, you’ll be there? Promise?”

“What are you, five?” Angelica asked, arching her eyebrows. “Do you want me to pinky swear on it?”

“Angelica, will you be there?”

The insistence and the hopeful expression was pointless to argue with, and honestly, Angelica had no idea why she was bothering to even pretend to put up a fight. She would be there, and Alex knew she would be there, so all of this was really just ceremonial for the purpose of argument. “Text me the address and I’ll see if I can fit it into my schedule,” Angelica responded loftily, turning on her heel to continue toward her train. “Go back to class, Alex.”

* * *

"So who are the people throwing this party, again?"

Angelica pursed her lips as she looked into the mirror of her compact, checking her lipstick before speaking. "Classmates. A group of boys living in Harlem... I was invited by Alexander Hamilton, but I doubt he's going to care if I bring you along." And Angelica glanced to her left, toward her sister, Eliza, who adjusted her sweater a little nervously as she looked out of the window of the Lyft they had called. "Why, are you nervous?"

"I'm not nervous," Eliza protested, tucking a loose piece of hair behind her ear. "I'm just wondering whether or not I should go, I don't know any of the people here."

"Well, I do, and you're going to be great," Angelica reassured her, closing her compact to slide it into her bag, offering her sister a warm smile. "You've seen Alex around campus, haven't you? It's not like you don't know who he is."

"I know who he is; he has no idea who I am," Eliza said with a smile in return, looking over at her sister with a knowing look. "I don't exactly stand out in the same social circles as he does."

"Do you _want_ him to know who you are?" Angelica responded, arching her eyebrows slightly... and there was no confusing the sudden flush to Eliza's cheeks, and the shift to returning to stare out of the window. " _Eliza_."

"I wouldn't _mind_ him knowing who I am," came the muffled respond, as Eliza had pulled up the scarf she was wearing over her nose, her eyes fixated on the passing scenery of the car as it continued further uptown. "He seems to be nice."

"Alexander Hamilton is a menace to society," Angelica said informatively, returning to her bag as she tucked her compact into her purse a bit more. "He has done absolutely nothing but cause chaos since he came to New York City." And she loved it, every single moment of it, though she would never admit it out loud. "Why are you so interested in him? You're one of the nice girls."

"I don't know, he's cute. -- but it's fine, because he has no idea who I am, and he never will, and that's okay." Eliza adjusted her scarf to look back over at Angelica, who looked almost incredulous at Eliza's assertion that it was fine that Alexander had no idea who she was, because it was _not_ fine... or was it? Wasn't it fine, that Alexander's attention was fixated on Angelica, and not Eliza? His eyes, and charm, and smile... But as Angelica considered that, Eliza just shook her head, shifting to turn her attention to her phone. "I'm probably not his type, anyway."

"Anyone who says you are not their type is not worth an ounce of your consideration," Angelica huffed, reaching out a hand to tuck a stray hair behind Eliza's ear, frustrated by her sister's self-deprecation. "Alexander included... why don't you talk to him tonight?"

"And say what?" Eliza said with a slight roll of her eyes, scrolling through her Facebook feed, not looking at Angelica -- which only infuriated Angelica more. How could Eliza possibly think that someone wouldn't want to pay attention to her? "Hi, I'm Eliza, you've never heard of me?"

For half a moment, Angelica almost agreed with her. Selfishly, because it was true -- Alexander could pass right by Eliza and not know to look, because he was drawn to high-energy, to conflict, to chaos. To Angelica, who took time out of her day to argue with him, to push him, to encourage his ideas. But the thought of confirming Eliza's hesitancy was impossible, and so Angelica rolled her eyes, turning her attention to her own phone. "That you think he's cute, and charming, and smart, and you want his phone number because he should be so lucky to have it, what _else_ are you going to say to him?" Angelica asked, dismissive. "He's going to be texting you at all hours by the end of tonight, you watch."

"He is not," Eliza groaned, but Angelica ignored her as the Lyft slowly came to a stop on a corner, and Eliza was nudged toward the door by Angelica to get out. The two were soon left on the corner of the street, the air nearly cold and biting as the sun was already down... the tellings of an early winter night. And as Eliza tugged the coat closer around her, Angelica inclined her head toward the nearest apartment complex. "This is it?" Eliza asked, a bit uncertainly as she glanced up at the old building.

"So says Alex," Angelica murmured, scrolling through her texts before she selected Alexander as a contact, putting the phone on speaker... and after two rings, the call connected, and Angelica raised the phone up to her mouth. "Is this party still happening, Alex?"

"Angelica!" came Alexander's voice, cheerful and bright, and Angelica didn't miss Eliza's cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink at the sound of his voice. "Are you here? Do you need to be let in?"

"I don't think so," Angelica said dryly, moving toward the stoop, Eliza close behind. "This door doesn't exactly look well-guarded... can you just buzz us in?"

"Yeah -- yeah, sure! Hang on, give me a minute, I'll buzz you in -- hey, Laurens, can you buzz the girls in?"

"Girls?" Eliza whispered, her eyes widening as they ascended the stairs to wait for the intercom to sound, to be let into the building. "Did you tell him I was coming?"

"No," Angelica responded, her eyes shifting up the building to look at the windows, her eyes narrowing... could Alexander see them? "Did you invite other girls, Alex?" Angelica asked, a bit incredulous as the buzzer finally sounded, and the two stepped into a low-lit lobby... with no elevator in sight. "And is this a walk-up?"

"I invited a lot of people, Ms. Schuyler," came the sly response, and Angelica rolled her eyes as she moved toward what appeared to be a staircase, Eliza close behind. "And yeah, it's a walk-up, we're on the sixth floor. Sorry! We can't afford the nice places with the cool elevators, you know--"

"I'm hanging up," Angelica interrupted, and sure enough, she ended the call and looked at her sister, whose expression was turning from nervous to slightly incredulous. "Do you still want to go? These idiots are probably not worth six flights of stairs and bad alcohol." _Probably_ not worth it... as if spending time with Alexander wasn't worth everything. "We could turn back now."

"We're already here," Eliza murmured, beginning to follow her sister up the stairs. "We may as well make an appearance, right? What's the worst that could happen?"


	6. ELIZA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the comments + concrit that has been given! This is truly just a fun project for me and I'm really surprised to see people are invested, haha. It makes my day to get these comments + kudos! Please, please, please leave me concrit/comments if you have questions/ideas/etc! I love reading them. This IS going to be updated fairly sporadically, but I promise I read all the comments. :)
> 
> As a special treat for the positivity and encouragement, enjoy a long-ish chapter! xo
> 
> Also - congrats to AO3 for a Hugo!!!!! I happily accept my 1/10,000th of a Hugo. We are all winners.

* * *

**ELIZA.**

Washington, D.C.

72 Hours after Alexander Hamilton was shot.

* * *

_"So... Dad went to Columbia and made a bunch of friends. Acted like he owned the place. He pretty much moved into a house with a bunch of strangers, and went to class. That was how he met Aunt Angelica, and the rest of the group--"_

_"God, are we going to get into how he met Mom? Is that where we're at?"_

_"Dad would never forgive us if we didn't talk about how he met Mom, Angie--"_

_"No - do you tell your listeners anything? Daddy telling us how he met Mom is a four hour affair, minimum. There is no short version of the story, because he goes on, and on, and on, about how--"_

_"--look, I asked Dad once how he knew, when he met Mom, that she was the one. And he always said that she took his breath away, but to people who actually know my parents - not the television version, or the version of my Dad you see in Congress or in the streets, but the real version of my Dad -- you all know that the only human being on the entire planet that can get my Dad to do anything is my mom."_

_"She has to give him a look and he jumps to attention, it's sad."_

_"It's not sad, they love each other - anyway, they met at a party that Dad had thrown at his place. It had been a couple of months since he got to the city, he was living with a group of friends, and he had invited our aunt Angelica out to a party, but she brought Mom along, too. And it was love at first sight. The world stopped, angels sang--"  
_

_"You're being so overdramatic. Daddy almost fell off a fire escape because he had too many beers, it was not an elegant event at all."_

The sound of her children through the headphones brought a faint laugh to her lips, that broke through the sheer exhaustion that seeped through every fiber of her being. The last three days had felt like an eternity, a never ending nightmare that she did not seem to be able to break through. In times like these, Alexander was usually the one to push them forward, to keep _going_. Death, loss, grief, anger... none of those things ever seemed to paralyze Alex. He took everything handed to him in life head-on, with absolutely no hesitation. 

Even in the darkest times, Alexander always seemed to have a smile. Or, at the very least, a well-meaning quip. He was the one who held her up whenever she felt like she could not stand, and though Alexander always insisted that it was the other way around, Eliza always stoutly refused.

Alexander was her sun, and she simply revolved around him.

Eliza removed the headphones one earbud at a time, carefully rolling them up around her phone, pausing the podcast. She had been warned that Philip had done what she did by a furious text from her sister, but Eliza hadn't had the energy to be upset. What harm was there, really, in Philip saying what he had? What bigger target could be put on their backs? The individual who hated Alexander had already gotten what they wanted... Alexander, silent as the grave, lying in the bed in front of her. Quiet.

"I didn't know you almost fell off of a fire escape," Eliza murmured to herself, setting aside her phone on the bedside table, allowing her eyes to scan the hospital room. It was so quiet... which was a relief, in a way. It gave Eliza time to think, to process, and to talk to Alexander in a way that didn't feel scrutinized. The children weren't here, so she didn't need to put on an act. If she wanted, she could cry... but all of the tears she had seemed to be gone, now. 

She stood, then, only to resume sitting on Alexander's bed, taking his left hand in both of hers, her fingers running over his wedding ring. His hand felt cold, lifeless in her own, and Eliza had to fight back the urge to scream, at how wrong this was. How unfair, how cruel, how unnecessary... and why Alexander, of all people, of _all people_ , was the one to be taken away from her.

"You promised me that you would never leave me here alone," she whispered, squeezing his fingers gently. "I need you to remember that, Alex, for me. _Please_."

No response, and Eliza drew in an uneven breath before running her thumb over the back of his hand, trying to urge some amount of warmth back into his fingers. He felt so cold... and Alexander hated being cold. There was absolutely nothing Alexander hated more than being cold. He would insist on a fire burning in their home at all hours of the day in the dead of winter, even when the heat was running.

Truthfully, he had only tolerated a winter wedding because he loved her... and because Alexander, who was a romantic at heart, loved the idea of being married on the day that they had met.

* * *

**ELIZA.**

New York City.

Early Winter. Past.

* * *

The apartment was small and full of people that Eliza did not know. The smell of weed was fairly prevalent, and Eliza had a faint stirring inside her that this was definitely not a place where her father would want her to be on the weekend... but Angelica, as Angelica always did, strode into the room as if she owned the place, and the Schuyler sisters were quickly swept up into the party with a cheer and a warm welcome.

Some of the people Eliza recognized from class... John Laurens, a freshman from South Carolina, was in the corner chatting with Gilbert de Lafayette, a sophomore from Paris who had quickly solidified himself into quite the popular individual on campus. Eliza raised a hand in a shy greeting to Laurens, who quickly waved in warm welcome... they shared an english class together, and at least someone was around that Eliza knew.

But _someone_ , the boy that Eliza had really come here to see, was nowhere in sight.

Eliza wasn't entirely sure what it was about Alexander that had captured her attention. He was the direct opposite of her, in nearly every way. He was a powerhouse, and had quickly established himself on campus as the individual who wasn't afraid to make noise. He was almost never seen without his group of friends (Laurens and Lafayette included), and had even caught the attention of Angelica, who considered him a friend. He was handsome, charming, and funny... or, at least, Eliza imagined he was, given she had never had a conversation with him.

He had absolutely no idea she existed, which was partly Eliza's own fault... she had no idea what to say, to someone that was brilliant. Tonight was an opportunity, but from the sound of it, Alexander hadn't even expected her to come. Which might be a good thing, in the end--it certainly cut down on nerves, and expectations, that Alexander had no idea that Eliza was hanging out in his apartment.

Lost in thought, Eliza was in the midst of drinking a cup of some sort of boxed wine when Angelica found her again, roughly an hour into the party, and Eliza laughed as Angelia looped an arm with her, leaning forward to bump hips with her sister. "Having fun?" Eliza asked warmly, inclining her head toward the group of boys who had obviously fallen prey to Angelica's charming wit. "You have quite the audience."

"Idiots," Angelica sighed dismissively, taking a drink out of her own cup. "Not worth my time... why are you lingering in the background? You know Laurens, don't you?"

"John, and that's it," Eliza responded, letting her eyes scan the room again. Still no sign of Alexander... "Besides, I came because you invited me, not because--"

There was a sudden burst of laughter, from the doorway, and the two young women looked in the direction of the ruckus to see Alexander Hamilton enter, shaking off a burst of snow from his dark hair as he said (loud enough for everyone to hear), "You bastards didn't tell me it was going to start snowing when you sent me out to go get more alcohol, I didn't even have a damn coat--"

"The man of the hour!" Eliza heard Lafayette crow, and she saw the taller student reach over to shake the snow out of Alexander's sweatshirt, which received a scowl and a swat of his hand. "His very first snow, he is growing up before our very eyes--"

"Are you going to go and say hi?" Angelica's voice was in Eliza's ear, and Eliza's cheeks suddenly flushed, a weight appearing in her throat as Angelica attempted to push her forward a few inches, toward Alexander (who was now swept up with talking to his friends, a drink in hand, laughing, eyes bright enough to light up the entire room), but Eliza stood her ground, immediately shaking her head. "What are you waiting for?"

"What am I supposed to say?" Eliza hissed, but to her absolute horror, Angelica rolled her eyes and let go of Eliza's arm, making her way across the room. "Angelica, _no_ \--"

But it was too late. Angelica had already made her way across the room, the proverbial seas parting as she made her way to Alexander's side. Whoever Alexander was talking to was suddenly unimportant, in the face of Angelica, who was immediately greeted with a smile and an arm around her waist, as Angelica leaned forward to speak into Alexander's ear. There was a sudden weight in her throat, as Eliza watched them uncertainly... almost wondering if Angelica was simply going to ask Alexander to spend the evening with her instead, but to her absolute shock, Alexander's eyes moved from Angelica's face to Eliza, who was staring at them both from across the room."Oh no," Eliza groaned to herself, suddenly averting her eyes to avoid being caught staring, but it was too late. It felt as if time had stopped, and all the thoughts that were rocketing through Eliza's head screeched to a halt, as Alexander's arm vanished from Angelica's waist. Angelica had Alexander by the arm, and was guiding him through the room, and as they got closer, Eliza could hear them speaking, their voices cutting through the din of music.

"Who is she?" Alexander asked, his eyes still on Eliza, his tone playful and curious. "Where are you taking me?"

"I'm about to change your life," Angelica laughed, which was met with a roll of Alexander's eyes. They were getting closer, and closer, and soon they were both in front of Eliza, who awkwardly waved a hand. Alexander was still watching her, his dark eyes scanning her features curiously, and Angelica gently pushed Alexander forward. "I want you to meet Alexander -- Alex, this is his party. I think you'll get along."

"Elizabeth Schuyler," Eliza blurted out before she could stop herself, and Alexander arched his eyebrows, at the sudden introduction. Stupid, stupid, this was so stupid -- "But everyone calls me Eliza. Eliza is fine." God, this was so stupid--

"Schuyler?" Alexander repeated, and Eliza could see the dots connecting in his expression, as he glanced at Angelica, suddenly curious. "Is this your sister?"

"If you break her heart, I will kill you," Angelica said sweetly, reaching over to kiss Eliza on the cheek before vanishing into the crowd, leaving Eliza and Alexander standing in the crowded room together. Woefully alone, and suddenly standing in relatively awkward silence. Alexander returned his attention to her, and Eliza was struck by how his eyes seemed to absorb her in a single moment. He scanned her, up and down, once, and his expression shifted from a pointed curiosity to something a bit warmer, more inviting. 

But still, he said nothing, and Eliza couldn't stand it anymore.

"My sister brought me here, I'm sorry, I didn't have an invitation," Eliza said finally, and her heart rose into her throat as Alexander stepped closer, seemingly to be able to hear her over the music and the ruckus. "I'm new on campus, so I think she--"

"You don't have to apologize for coming to a party," Alexander laughed, catching her eyes -- and, again, his expression was warm, inviting. And despite being shoved into an awkward situation, Eliza felt herself begin to relax. He didn't seem to be upset or weirded out by Angelica dumping her less-than-graceful younger sister on him... if anything, he seemed totally at ease. "Besides, I told Angelica she could bring her sisters if she wanted to, but I didn't think she'd actually do it."

"Predicting what Angelica is going to do is a hard art," Eliza admitted, which earned a laugh from Alexander, which only encouraged her to keep talking. "I think half of the time she does the opposite of what's asked of her just to keep everyone on their toes."

"And what do you do?" The question clearly prompted a surprised look, and Alexander's eyebrows arched as he took a sip of his drink, watching her curiously... and when Eliza didn't immediately answer, Alexander's lips twitched into a slight grin, one that reached his eyes with a sudden charming inquisitiveness that seemed to light up his entire face. "People don't ask you that, do they? What you do."

"Most people don't ask me because they're a little too busy talking to Angelica," Eliza said lightly, meeting his charming inquisitiveness with a coy evasiveness, although something about his expression made her heart flutter... as if he was truly seeing everything inside her head, without her having said a word. "But because you're asking, I might be inclined to answer."

"You _might_?" His laugh was intoxicating, and Eliza's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink as Alexander leaned forward, to catch more of the conversation... or, at least, that was what Eliza told herself. There was really no other need for him to be so close. His hair was still somewhat wet from the snow outside, his cheeks flushed from the bitter wind... "Well, if the lady is so inclined, do you want to find somewhere quieter? To tell me what you do?"

"Quieter?" Eliza repeated, her eyebrows arching slightly as she glanced toward the chaotic party. "Where, outside?"

"I have a room, you know, they don't make me sleep outside," Alexander retorted with a snort of laughter, and he inclined his head toward a corner of the living area, where a closed door beckoned. "We could go there for some privacy -- I mean, to talk," Alexander said quickly, catching Eliza's swiftly incredulous expression, and to her immense satisfaction, Eliza could see the impeccably smooth armor crack just slightly, at the possibility of being misconstrued. "I'm not -- it's not like that, I want to talk to you about--"

"We can talk," Eliza interrupted with a warm laugh, and Alexander's shoulders dipped in relief, which caused an odd stir in her chest. It was... cute, almost, how suddenly he panicked at the thought that Eliza would be offended by the suggestion. It was an odd sort of panic that Alexander Hamilton did not wear very well. The chinks in his armor weren't very well-oiled, and yet, he seemed to recover quickly enough, as he allowed her to lead the way toward the door. But, as Eliza reached out to the door knob to twist, the door didn't open. And Eliza blinked before trying it again, but the door still did not budge. "Is it locked?" she asked.

"Uh - no." Alexander's brow furrowed before stepping forward to try the knob himself, but the door remained closed. Eventually, Alexander handed Eliza his drink before positioning his shoulder against the door, and with a solid _thud_ , the door creaked open, which prompted half a laugh from Eliza, and a sheepish expression from Alexander. "It gets stuck sometimes, sorry -- here, let me get the light."

"As long as you don't get locked out of it on accident, I don't think it really matters much," Eliza reassured him, ducking underneath his arm to step into the room properly... and once the light flickered on, Eliza was greeted with the sight of a small room, full of an organized chaotic mess of books, papers, and artwork decorating the walls. Stacks of books of varying ages were strewn in different corners, organized by type (probably). Notebooks lined one shelf above a bed in the corner, which seemed to only be there out of a basic necessity to sleep. A desk was crammed into another corner, overflowing with paper, and as Alexander closed the door behind them, Eliza cut off whatever he was about to say with, "What are all of these?"

"All of -- what, the books?" Alexander moved past her to crack open a window slightly, to allow some amount of fresh (freezing) air into the small room... and Eliza noticed that Alexander's window opened right out onto the fire escape, overlooking the neighborhood. "I read a lot. Some of them are for school, some of them I found interesting... Laurens gave me a few, and Mulligan told me it was a crime that I've never read Harry Potter, so those are in there, somewhere."

"You've never read Harry Potter?" Eliza repeatedly, looking up from a notebook she picked up from the bed, tossing a look toward Alexander, who offered her a sheepish grin in return. "I don't think I've met a single soul in the world who hasn't read Harry Potter."

"Present and accounted for, but I'm almost done," Alexander reassured her, shifting to sit on the bed as he watched her look around the room. He appeared... nervous, almost, at her presence in this space. Eliza had a feeling that he didn't invite girls to this space to _talk_ very often, and she resisted the urge to open the notebook she had picked up, instead placing it on the desk. "I think I'll finish the seventh book next week."

"Did you pick a house?" Eliza asked, her eyes shifting from the notebook to a corkboard hung on the wall above the desk. It had photographs attached to it... some new, some old and worn. "Most people pick a house, after they read them."

"Obviously."

"And?" Eliza's gaze shifted from the corkboard of photographs to Alexander, expression inquisitive. "What House did you pick?"

"Slytherin." And Alexander inclined his head toward the corner of the room, where a green and silver striped scarf hung next to a hat and a set of gloves... none of which were used in Alexander's excursion outside into the winter storm. "Laurens got us all one for Christmas, but he let us open them early so I could have a scarf. Something about freezing to death." At that revelation, Eliza made a thoughtful _hmmm_ sound, which caused Alexander's eyebrows to arch. "What's that for?"

"Oh, nothing," Eliza said lightly, turning on her heel to look back at the corkboard, her eyes scanning the photographs. The photographs on the board were an odd combination of a variety of images. One was an image of a nameless beach, with pristine blue waters and palm trees scattering white sands. Another image was of two boys, one shorter than the other, on what appeared to be the same beach. Still another was a more familiar image of Alexander, Laurens, Lafayette, and Mulligan at a protest -- Alexander was standing on a car, with a megaphone in hand, while Laurens and Lafayette and Mulligan stood below, watching him speak. Who took the picture, Eliza had no idea... but as Angelica had been going to these demonstrations in the city without telling their father, she would not put it past her to be Alexander's secret photographer. "Ambition and cunning makes for a dangerous combination, that's all..."

"What's wrong with being ambitious?"

"Nothing, really," Eliza admitted, still looking over the photographs... images of Alexander and Laurens in Central Park, being bothered by the pigeons, and of Alexander and Angelica at a student organization meeting, both of them sitting in a corner preparing for some argument against the student budget cuts that had taken place last semester... "I guess it depends on what your ambition is being used for." And, finally, Eliza looked over her shoulder toward Alexander, offering him a small smile. "It looks like you're doing a lot of amazing things already, so I don't think we need to be worried about you."

The comment was met with a laugh, and Alexander rested most of his weight on his elbows as he leaned back onto the bed, watching Eliza with a... curious expression, almost, though the word was not quite right. He was examining her, carefully listening to every word she said. "I guess that's a word for it," Alexander said lightly, shifting his weight to be a bit more comfortable, the springs of his bed creaking rather dangerously. "I just want to leave something behind worth talking about, and I feel like we're all running out of time to do something worth doing, you know?" Alexander shrugged a shoulder, his gaze moving from Eliza's face to looking out the window. "Cops brutalize people, and no one wants to talk about it. Immigrants can't walk freely in a country that's supposed to be free, and no one wants to talk about it. It's a disgrace."

"But you're talking about it," Eliza ventured, and Alexander looked back over at her, eyes meeting for only a moment before Eliza turned to look back at the photographs, reaching out to touch the one of Alexander on a car, commanding the audience before him with little to no effort at all. "You have a gift, you know. People listen to you because you're _you_. That's not very common."

"You know, you still haven't told me what you do." His voice was suddenly closer, and Eliza could hear Alexander getting up from the bed, the creaking of bedsprings and the sound of footsteps as he moved to stand somewhat behind her, looking over her shoulder at the corkboard. His eyes scanned the photographs, and Eliza paid attention to see if Alexander paid attention to one more than the other... but his tone was as carefree as ever, delicately avoiding questions. "Interested in photography?"

 _Interested in you_ , was what Eliza wanted to say, but she stilled the brave voice inside her head and instead said, "I'm majoring in English, but I've always wanted to help people," Eliza murmured, distracted by both Alexander's proximity and by the images she was hungrily devouring, to gain more information, to take advantage of an opportunity that she was certain not a lot of people had. "Work with children, maybe? I guess I'm still figuring out 'what I do'... not everyone has it figured out by now." But her eyes shifted again, distracted, in particular, by one image. A woman, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, sitting at a table in what appeared to be a small room, with a radiant smile, holding a baby that looked a little too small in her arms. Eyes full of love and adoration, clutching what appeared to be her new child protectively to her chest. "Who is this?" Eliza asked, looking over her shoulder at Alexander, who was watching Eliza with a thoughtful expression before he shifted his attention back toward the photograph. "She looks happy."

"My mother." His voice had suddenly lost the playful energy from before, shifting from an energetic joy to a more somber tone. "And she was happy, I think. That was a few days after I was born... she died, when I was a kid." And, before Eliza could say anything, Alexander cleared his throat before reaching out a hand, gently taking Eliza by the arm to turn her away from the board of photographs to face him, and she was immediately greeted with a warm smile. The smile, Eliza noticed, did not reach his eyes. "But enough of that, it doesn't matter. I want to know more about--"

"My mother died, too." The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop herself, and Alexander's fingers froze on her arms. _What a stupid thing to say, he obviously doesn't want to talk about it_ , Eliza cursed to herself, and she immediately drew in a sharp breath, ducking her head to avoid his gaze. What was she doing? This was meant to be a fun party, and Angelica had gone through the effort to introduce her to this boy, and what was she doing with it? Talking about his dead mother, on the first-- "I'm sorry," Eliza continued, mostly to fill the void of silence, because Alexander still hadn't said anything. "I shouldn't have pried, I didn't mean to bring up an awful memory, I can go--"

"Can I buy you a coffee?"

The interruption was surprising enough for Eliza to tear her eyes away from the book lying on the floor (Plato's Republic) to meet Alexander's gaze... remarkably intelligent, kind eyes, the warmth returned to them with his smile. Whatever ghost she had accidentally invoked was now gone, replaced by the same energetic spark that Eliza had clung to the moment she had seen it on the green at school. 

"A coffee?" Eliza repeated, surprised.

"Yeah, a coffee. Tomorrow. Or the next day, or whenever you want, I want to buy you a coffee." There was absolutely no denying Alexander, with the eagerness of his smile, the brightness of his face, the hopeful glint in his eyes. Eliza felt positively helpless, and Alexander took half a step forward, closing the gap between them. Her heart was hammering impossibly loud, now, and Eliza was certain Alexander knew it, given the sudden swagger in his posture. He knew exactly what he was doing, and Eliza couldn't be pressed to care. "So can I do that, Elizabeth Schuyler?"

"Sure," Eliza said faintly, her lips curling into a faint smile to meet Alexander's own. "Coffee would be nice."

Alexander opened his mouth to continue to say something, but Eliza would never get the opportunity to know what he was going to say...because the bedroom door suddenly opened, and Alexander took a step backward, less he face the wrath of the sudden presence of -- 

"Angelica," Alexander said graciously, with a sweeping bow that Eliza could almost describe as genuine, were it not for the flourish of his left hand as he did so. "What have I done to deserve your presence on this fine evening?"

"I hate to break up your midnight romance," Angelica said dryly, stepping over a set of books neatly to loop arms with Eliza, who looked a bit flushed, "but we need to get going, and I'm not going to leave my little sister alone in the presence of you and your band of miscreants."

" _Miscreants_ , Angelica, I'm wounded--"

"You are miscreants," Angelica interrupted without so much as a second thought, handing Eliza the coat she had shed earlier in the evening. And, while Eliza shrugged herself into it, Angelica let her eyes rove around the room, her eyebrows slowly arching as she took in the organized chaos that was the room. "You are a mess, in every sense of the word, how do you find anything in here?"

"Very carefully," Alexander responded lightly, unbothered by Angelica's assessment of his living situation. Instead, Alexander crossed the room, and draped the green and silver scarf that had been hanging on the wall around Eliza's neck with a wink that Eliza was certain only she could see. "Stay warm, thanks for coming -- Angelica, do you need anyone to walk you to the train stop?"

"A miscreant _and_ assuming that we can't take care of ourselves, you are two for two tonight," Angelica said brightly, linking arms with Eliza once more and escorting her out of the room before Eliza could say another word. "We are fine, thank you. We're just going to take an Uber." And when Eliza said nothing, Angelica glanced over at her -- the expression, which Eliza could decode in a heartbeat, was silently seeing if she was okay... and then her eyes landed on the scarf, and Angelica rolled her eyes before turning toward the door, walking out with her sister in tow. "She isn't even a Slytherin, Alex, you can do better than that."

"No, but Hufflepuffs are gracious in accepting gifts," Alexander called out after them, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe of his room, offering a slight wave to the sisters -- and Eliza was suddenly struck with the thought that she hadn't told him a word of what house _she_ picked for herself, but Alexander had seemed to read it out of her anyway. What a silly thing to focus on, but the thought caused her chest to burst with warmth. 

As the sisters left the apartment and walked down the stairs, it was in relative silence... but the moment they stepped out onto the snowy sidewalk, Eliza immediately burst into a laugh, hugging her sister's arm close as Angelica called an Uber her free hand, fingers moving across the screen quickly. "Angelica, I think I met the boy I'm going to marry."

"He's -- I'm sorry, what?" Angelica said, mortified as she looked over at Eliza... and Eliza could tell, by the expression, that Angelica was gearing up for an argument that Eliza was certain she was going to lose. "Alexander is a great guy, but he's not _marriage_ material -- what did you even talk about?"

"Everything, and nothing, it's just -- it's hard to describe, but I just know in my soul that he's--"

The conversation, however, was interrupted by a sudden shout, and the sisters looked up to see Alexander Hamilton, on the fire escape, leaning over the edge waving frantically... but as the sisters hadn't heard what he said, they simply stared at him before Alexander tried again, his voice carrying through the snow and wind, "Angelica, give her my phone number, I need--" But someone had grabbed Alexander by the arm and yanked him back inside before he could finish the statement... a roommate, most likely, Eliza theorized, but she didn't say so out loud.

Instead, the silence was filled with a massive sigh from Angelica, who returned to her phone. "He's the one and he didn't even remember to give you his phone number?" Angelica said, clearly not impressed... but Eliza's phone soon buzzed in her pocket, and she quickly took it out to add Alexander's phone number to her contacts, texting a quick " _It's Eliza!_ " to the number to ensure that Alexander now had hers. "What a mess..."

"Thank you," Eliza said warmly, pocketing her phone and wrapping her arms around Angelica's free arm, to give a quick hug while they waited for the Uber. "I hope you had fun at the party, too. Did you meet anyone?"

"I spent most of it talking to Lafayette." Angelica locked her phone and put it into her pocket while they waited for the car, her eyes scanning the dark street. Her older sister was always at attention, always at the ready, full of life and energy... it was no wonder, really, that she and Alexander had become fast friends. "He's nice enough, and in a few of my classes. I might be bothered to talk to him again."

" _Angelica--_ "

"I'm kidding -- anyway, are you going on a date with Alex, now? Is that the plan?" A car rolled up, and once Angelica was satisfied that the information matched up with what was on the app, the two sisters slid into the car and set off for their shared apartment in Midtown, Eliza tucking her nose into the scarf that Alexander had draped around her neck. "You need to be careful, with him," Angelica continued, returning her attention to her phone, texting someone while she spoke. "He's sweet, but smart, and I don't want you to get hurt."

"Why did you introduce him to me, then?" Eliza asked, genuinely curious as she looked over at her sister, brow furrowing. "If you're afraid of me getting hurt."

"Because I think you'd be good for him, and I think he'd be good for you. And you think he's cute, and I was sick of watching you stare at him all day without talking to him," Angelica added, melting into a laugh as Eliza did the same, shifting so Eliza could rest her head on Angelica's shoulder with ease. "I just want you to be careful, that's all. He has big dreams."

"I know," Eliza murmured, watching the scenery roll by quickly as the car picked up speed. "And I will, I just... I've never met someone like him before, you know?"

"That's how he gets you," Angelica intoned, resting her head on top of Eliza's, her eyes focused on the screen of her phone... and while Eliza was not trying to eavesdrop, she could see that she was texting Lafayette. It was a relatively normal conversation -- an assurance that they would get home safely, a vague promise to maybe call later. Eliza wasn't certain Angelica would live up to the second one, but at least Angelica wasn't leading the poor guy on. Probably. "There's nobody else quite like him."

The two sisters fell into silence again, as the car drove on... but within twenty minutes, there was a buzz in Eliza's pocket, and Eliza withdrew her phone to unlock it, seeing a message from Alexander.... which soon turned into several messages, and Eliza quickly texted to keep up.

**Alexander:** Hey! Thanks for the number. 

**Alexander:** I feel like an idiot that I didn't get it before you left.

 **Alexander:** Sorry about that.

 **Alexander:** But I'm glad I met you tonight.

 **Eliza:** I am too! :) Thanks for the scarf, but it's a Christmas present. Don't you want it back?

 **Alexander:** Give it back to me when we meet for coffee.

 **Alexander:** Also, sorry about getting weird over the photos.

 **Eliza:** You don't have to be sorry!! I shouldn't have been so nosy.

 **Alexander:** No, I do.

 **Alexander** : I didn't mean to get defensive or put up a wall or whatever I did, or make it weird.

 **Alexander:** I definitely made it weird.

 **Alexander:** And I'm still making it weird, so I'm going to change the subject!

 **Alexander:** Counting down the days until I can see you again, so you better not make it too long, because I might die.

 **Alexander:** Your smile lights up the entire room, just in case you didn't know.

 **Alexander:** I sort of need to see it again to continue living on this planet.

 **Alexander:** No pressure. :) 

**Alexander:** Goodnight. xo

There was a moment of hesitation as Eliza's finger lingered over the screen, and as the car slowed to a stop in front of her apartment, Eliza (for the first time in the evening) decided to be brave.

**Eliza:** I can't wait to see you, either.

 **Eliza:** Good night. :) xo


	7. AARON.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back.  
> Back again.  
> With a super long chapter to make up for the sudden falling off the face of the Earth.
> 
> In all seriousness, thank y'all for the comments/kudos. They really make my day. xo It's been really, really hard RL for me lately, but writing like I'm running out of time has always given me a sense of peace. Thanks for pushing me to keep doing it.

* * *

**AARON**

_Washington, D.C._

_74 Hours Since Alexander Hamilton Was Shot._

* * *

The buzz in Aaron's pocket was growing harder and harder to ignore, as they neared the hospital. Thomas was as aloof as ever, casually ignoring whatever Aaron was going through by flipping through a magazine that had been left behind in the armored vehicle they had taken from the Capitol. It was _Time Magazine_ , the tell-tale red border spelling out what the magazine was before Aaron could glance at the words emblazoned across the top, but it was who was on the cover that caught Aaron's attention.

It was Alexander and Angelica, the two of them standing side by side. Angelica's arms were crossed, her back pressed against Alexander's shoulder, and Alexander's hands were slid into the pockets of his pants. The two were dressed in stark contrast with one another... Alexander was wearing a zip-up hoodie over his untucked button-up shirt with jeans, while Angelica looked far more professional, and was wearing slacks and a blouse, but the two were wearing the same challenging expression, almost daring the reader of the magazine to jump to conclusions about their worth. 

_"The Dynamic Duo Set To Save Washington: How Angelica Schuyler's Administration Aims To Shake Things Up_." Thomas' voice sounded bored, as he flipped through the article. Glimpses of Alexander sitting at his former desk in the Capitol, surrounded by photographs of his children and family, were visible over Thomas' shoulder. Alexander was in his element, as a Congressman, but he still remained true to his nature... frequently seen in jeans, rather than a suit. He had always complained that people looked at him differently, when he wore a suit... as if he was suddenly respectable to them. Alexander hated playing the game, even if he was particularly good at winning it. Being respectable for the sake of politics was never his cup of tea. "It's as if the media only gives a damn about the _loud_ ones, not the ones doing the _actual_ work... I stopped the nuclear arms race from restarting again, and do I get a _Time_ expose about it?"

"You weren't invited to the photoshoot?" Aaron asked after a moment, returning his attention to the window to watch D.C. roll by. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, with the police checking identifications and scoping out vehicles. Somewhere, Alexander Hamilton would be horrified at the blatant civil rights violations that were occurring in his new backyard on his behalf. "I'm sure Alexander loved that."

"I wasn't confirmed yet, so who cares," Thomas said airily, closing the magazine and tossing it onto the empty seat between them. Aaron resisted the urge to pick it up, instead shifting to remove his phone from his pocket. It was no longer ringing, but the damage had already been done... seven missed calls from Theodosia. "I always thought he was nuts, to take the job. He was on track to be the Speaker of the House."

"Maybe he didn't want it," Aaron murmured, scrolling through the missed calls to access his text notifications. Sixteen, all from Theodosia... what a nightmare. "He's always been an economist at heart... I have to make a phone call, how much longer do we have until we reach the hospital?" Aaron asked, positing his question to the driver.

"With this traffic, ten minutes, Senator. We're doing our best."

"That's -"

"Don't mention where Hamilton is being held over the phone," Thomas interrupted, returning to his own gazing outside the window, and while Aaron had half a mind to pointedly state that he wasn't stupid, he held his tongue. "They still haven't caught the lunatic."

The comment earned something of a glance from Aaron before he raised his phone to his ear, hearing the phone ring twice it picked up. "I can't talk for long," Aaron said quietly, before Theodosia could speak. "Please tell me you stayed where--"

"Are you watching the news?" came the voice of his daughter, light and musical, but with a tinge of dormant anger in her tone. Familiar, really... they hadn't been getting along recently, which Aaron blamed entirely on Theodosia's idiotic choice in life partner, the young Philip Hamilton... why she had chosen to date him, of all beings in the universe -- "Dad?"

"I'm in the back of a car, why would I be watching the-- pull up CNN," Aaron added in an aside to Thomas, who was already activating the screens embedded in the backs of the front seat of the vehicle, flipping channels quickly to reach one of the main news networks. "What's going on, are you safe?"

"The President is going on air with an important announcement." The voice in Aaron's ear almost seemed distant, as his focus was now fixated on the television, which was showing an empty Rose Garden, lit up with lights. The podium was there, but no audience. Not very typical, of a Rose Garden announcement, but Aaron was stunned that Angelica was planning on approaching anybody in public at all. "What announcement? Is Mr. Hamilton still alive?"

"As far as I know," Aaron responded after a moment, glancing toward Thomas, who looked equally confused at the incoming announcement. "I have no idea what the President is planning on saying... she might just be addressing the country just to address the country. I'm not included in her press secretary briefings."

"Mr. Secretary, I think we can pull into the back alley," came the voice of the driver, and Thomas leaned forward slightly to direct him on where to go, distracting Aaron from whatever Theodosia asked after he spoke. "I have strict orders not to allow you in without security, so please wait in the car until Secret Service comes outside to escort you in."

"Ohh, we don't want Secret Service, the President will throw a fit if we're here," Thomas said dryly, gesturing toward the windshield toward the parking garage attached to the hospital, which seemed oddly brilliant and lit up, considering the struggling occupant inside. It seemed wrong, to have it be such a beacon, given the situation they were all currently in... wouldn't they want Alexander hidden? Why keep him locked up in such an obvious -- "Get into the garage and drop us off near the elevator. We'll blend right in."

"Are you at the hospital?" The question shook Aaron from his thoughts, and he cleared his throat before straightening in his seat. "Can't you just--"

"I have to go," Aaron interrupted, his voice quiet, but firm as the car slowly rolled into the garage. "Don't call people about Hamilton, just stay home, and --" But the phone soon disconnected, as service suddenly dropped upon entering the hospital. Aaron uttered a series of curses underneath his breath, tossing the phone on top of the forgotten _Time_ between himself and Thomas. "Did they cut the service in the building?" he asked, tone low and frustrated as the car slowly made its way toward the back of the parking garage.

"Probably." Thomas seemed unsurprised, as the car slowed to a park. "Can't have a viral video leak of Secretary Hamilton on death's doorstep, can we?" And, as he exited the vehicle, Thomas continued, his tone still miraculously unbothered, considering the circumstances: "Imagine the trending topic on Twitter if _that_ happened."

* * *

The hospital was eerily silent, as Thomas and Aaron made their way to the elevator. Police officers were loitering at every corner, and while they weren't uniformed, Aaron could spot the tell-tale signs of ear pieces tucked underneath hair and hidden by makeup. The entire place was armed to the teeth, something that Alexander would hate. He never did quite get along with the police, even if it was for his own good. Not that he could entirely blame him... he was getting arrested more frequently than a civil servant probably should.

"Top floor?" Aaron asked quietly, as they slowed to a stop near the elevator. Thomas pushed the "up" button without answering, returning to his phone to return a littany of texts that Aaron was certain had to do with anything _but_ the Secretary of the Treasury. The world did not stop turning, when tragedy happened. Quite the opposite, really, and Thomas Jefferson likely had fifteen thousand other fires to put out that had nothing to do with the unconscious man upstairs. 

"The President wants me to fly out tomorrow to meet with the new Prime Minister of Great Britain," Thomas said after a moment, pocketing his phone as he waited for the elevator to arrive. He sounded positively exhausted at the thought. "She doesn't want to cancel the meeting with the United States, even though they don't give half a damn what I have to say about anything. They want to meet her."

"So cancel the meeting," Aaron said mildly, reaching out to jab the up button again. "Who cares?"

"Do you want to tell Angelica Schuyler what to do?" Thomas asked, his tone reaching incredulous as the elevator doors finally opened, allowing the two men to step inside. "You've been in Washington this long and you still don't know how to play the game, Burr?"

"There's no game to be played, with Angelica," Aaron said heavily, pressing the button for the top floor. Once the elevator began to move, he leaned his back against the back hall of the elevator, crossing his arms over his chest to watch the numbers tick by. "She sees right through anything you attempt to pull over her eyes. I would just be honest and say the meeting is pointless without her. It isn't as if we don't have a national emergency going on. Someone just tried to murder a member of the Cabinet."

"Yeah, most of the world doesn't really give a damn about that. They care about whether or not the President is going to help them fix their problems like she said she would." The dismissiveness of Thomas' response only served to irritate Aaron further, but he said nothing, allowing the anger to settle into his chest. But Thomas seemed to realize that Aaron took it some type of way, and rolled his eyes, allowing his gaze to rest on the rising numbers, too. "The world doesn't stop because Hamilton got shot, Burr."

"Maybe it should, Jefferson," Aaron responded curtly, stepping forward once the elevator doors opened into a relatively empty hallway... but it was easy to see where Alexander was being kept, given the two armed guards posted outside of a doorway on the far end of the hall. "We could use a moment of reprieve from--"

But a shadow at the end of the hall caused him to pause, and Aaron glanced toward it to see a collective of figures exiting the guarded room. It only took a cursory glance to see who they were, and the weight in Aaron's guest suddenly grew heavier.

Alexander and Eliza Hamilton had three children. The eldest, Philip, was his father's spitting image, but had a softer side that certainly did not come from Alexander. He was smart, opinionated, and contained the same streak of temper that Alexander had, but an inability to properly control it. Alexander ran cold, when angry, whereas Philip ran hot... a trait that he could have obtained from his mother, had Aaron ever seen Eliza Hamilton get angry. 

The youngest, Rachel, was a soft-spoken carbon copy of her mother, with black hair that framed her face. She inherited Alexander's brilliance, able to devour books written for men more than twice her age with a practiced ease that few were born into. Alexander frequently boasted that his youngest daughter would be the youngest graduate of Columbia, when she elected to go... but Rachel had always quietly voiced that she would rather go to Harvard, a topic of debate that was of much fervor, in the Hamilton household. She was delicate, but stoic, and only spoke when she had something of great purpose to say.

And then, right in the middle -- 

"What the _fuck_ is he doing here?"

\-- was Angelica Margaret Hamilton.

As Aaron watched the figure storm down the hall, his expression impassive as ever, he couldn't help but marvel at how utterly _unlike_ the middle Hamilton and her father looked. Angelica had auburn hair and pale skin, her light hazel eyes dancing in the florescent lighting of the silent hospital. But what she lacked in similar looks, Angelica more than made up for in fiery spirit. There was absolutely no mistaking the cold undercurrent of her tone, the deliberate choice of words, the balled up fists at her sides as she stopped ten or so feet away. Anger radiated off her so powerfully that she needn't say another word, for Aaron to know how she felt. But she would, of course.

Angelica Hamilton, just like her father, wore her heart on her sleeve.

"Angie," came the sudden voice of Thomas, standing just to Aaron's left. The diplomat, the soothing condescension spilling from his lips as easily as ever. As if Alexander Hamilton had never been shot. "I don't think starting a fistfight in the middle of the hospital is really what your father would--"

"My father has never cared about where he's started a fistfight, Mr. Secretary," Angie interrupted coldly, and Aaron had to admire the sheer unaffected bravery that Angelica (or, as she preferred, to avoid confusion with her now incredibly famous aunt, "Angie") wielded herself with when speaking to one of the most powerful men in the world. "And let _him_ \--" And Angie jerked her head toward Aaron, who remained silent, watching. Waiting. "--speak for himself. He's more than capable of running his mouth when he's not wanted."

"True," Thomas agreed, and Aaron turned half an inch to glance at him, almost incredulous at his concession. But Thomas ignored him, instead stepping forward to rest a hand on Angie's shoulders. The young girl, miraculously, did not yank herself away, but her eyes grew darker, clouded. A warning, Aaron noted, that she may just live up to her threat of starting a fistfight in the halls of the hospital should it suit her. "But we're not here to start a fight, we're here to get an update."

"Is he awake?" Aaron asked, and he could see Thomas' shoulders tense, clearly annoyed that Aaron had opened his mouth. Angie's eyes darted over Thomas' arm, and their eyes met for the briefest moment before Angie scoffed, looking away. He waited, for a moment or two, before he continued. "Or are there no further updates?"

"What do you care?" Angie asked, the anger boiling over into a snarl, and she shoved Thomas' hands off of her shoulders to take half a step backward. The light briefly illuminated her face, and Aaron could see the tell-tale signs of red-rimmed eyes and swollen face. She had been crying, but her tone held no such weakness now. Like father, like daughter, Angie persisted. "You don't give a single shit about him."

"I care about what happens to him just as much as the next person," Aaron said quietly, but his tone carried somewhat of a dangerous undercurrent to it, now. He felt... defensive, but why? Why did he honestly care whether or not people knew he cared about Alexander Hamilton? Because, for all intents and purposes, it is irrelevant. He could die, right now, and all of this discussion on who cared about what was meaningless. But some part of Aaron, deep within, clawed at his heart at the thought that Alexander was going to die without really _knowing_ \-- "But as we don't want to cause a scene, we'll just take our leave, and--"

"Save your stump speech for the people who open their wallets," Angie hissed. It was an odd image, truly... the girl was wearing a Smith sweatshirt (where she went to college, Aaron vaguely recalled Alexander bemoaning to one of his staffers that his precious angel of a daughter was moving out of the city to go find her purpose elsewhere), ripped jeans, and bright rainbow Converse sneakers, but the presence she commanded was remarkable. She truly had her father's gift of captivation. "My father was shot for what he believed in; what have you done?"

"Angelica," Thomas said quietly, but it was too late. Alexander Hamilton, once he was properly pushed to fury, was impossible to stop. He was a candle that burned at both ends, and he would continue to fight until the flames flickered out... but the moments to that inevitable end were fraught with passion, fury, and an unstoppable force that did not think when he spoke. And Aaron could recognize it, in Angelica -- the twist of her lips, the anger bubbling up, the words she purposefully selected that she knew would cut the deepest. 

"All he has ever done is try to make this world a better place." Angie's words were practically spit out, and Aaron simply watched her, his heart hammering in his chest loud enough that he was certain Angie could hear it, but he said not a word against her accusations. "And all you've done is throw roadblocks in his way, question his ability to lead, mock him for dreaming too big -- so who's the one who achieved something in the end, Burr? What've you got to show for--"

"Angelica Margaret." 

This time, the young girl's name caused her spine to stiffen, as the word was not spoken from Thomas Jefferson's mouth, but rather a quiet voice down the hall... one of the shadows that Aaron saw step from the room at the end of the hall. And now that Aaron had torn his eyes away from the eldest daughter of Alexander to refocus his attention on who else was present, he saw two silhouettes. One, the tall, stoic figure of George Washington. The other, with her face barely visible in the florescent lighting of the hospital hallway, was Eliza Hamilton.

"They have no right to be here," Angie began, her voice constricted by the presence of unshed tears, but as the two figures moved down the hallway, Aaron could tell that the fight was quickly leaving her. And, once George Washington and Eliza Hamilton were within reasonable speaking distance of the group, Angie turned to face them, her fists held against her sides, her voice trembling with tempered fury. "They have _no right--_ "

"Your grandmother is here," George interrupted quietly, and not for the first time, Aaron had to admire George Washington's unfettered ability to immediately take command of a room without so much as raising his voice. Just like that, the anger and rage of Angelica Hamilton left her, shoulders slumping as she seemed to accept that she was not going to win this argument. "She's downstairs, with your sister. You should go down and bring them upstairs, so Rachel can visit with your father."

For half a moment, it looked as if Angie was going to regain the spark needed to continue fighting - but Eliza moved forward, gently placing her hands on Angie's shoulders. And, miraculously, it seemed that that singular touch was all that was required for Angie to toss one final glare toward Aaron and Thomas before stepping aside to George, who gently put his own hands on Angie's shoulders to steer her toward the elevator, accompanying her. The older man was speaking quietly to Angie, but what was said, Aaron had no idea... instead, his attention was diverted back to Thomas, who began to speak in the same cool, calm, and collected tone he had tried with Angelica earlier.

"I'm sorry, for the... chaos," Thomas said, the emphasis on the final word a bit much, for Aaron, but Eliza simply shook her head slightly. Whether that was an acceptance of an apology or an acknowledgment that, indeed, they had caused chaos, Aaron wasn't entirely sure. But after hearing no such objections, Thomas continued. "We just wanted to offer our condolences, and--"

"Condolences for what, Secretary Jefferson?" The interruption was soft, but no less heard. "My husband is not dead." There was a silence, after that, and Eliza Hamilton drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It was obvious, that there was a burden on her shoulders... and also obvious that the woman had been recently crying. 

But as Aaron was about to offer that they take their leave, Eliza suddenly looked to him, her eyes holding no warmth, or congeniality. For the first time, Aaron thought that Eliza Hamilton actually looked angry. 

"He has wanted nothing more than to prove to people like you that he was worthy," Eliza said after a long moment, her voice quiet, her eyes shifting from Aaron to Thomas, both of whom remained quiet. "You have no idea, how many hours of his life he has wasted trying to please the people who could care less, if he lived or died. And how hurt, and devastated, he was by being excluded by people who took advantage of that."

The words hung in the air, impossibly heavy, and met with oppressive silence. And Eliza Hamilton watched them both before turning, folding her arms over her chest as she walked back down the hall... but not before she offered one last quiet bullet that struck directly through Aaron's heart:

"Was it worth it?"

* * *

**AARON.**

_New York City._

_Winter. Past._

* * *

"Are you listening to me?"

Aaron was, in fact, not listening... or, rather, paying the strictest amount of attention to Alexander Hamilton, who was taking up a sizable amount of space at the table they were sharing in the library. Aaron was leaving tomorrow for the holiday, but had promised to meet Alexander before he left for the winter break... for what, Aaron had absolutely no idea, but he assumed it had something to do with his Christmas plans.

Or lack thereof. Alexander had mentioned that. Maybe. But most importantly, Alexander had been talking about... something - or someone. What had it been, again? God, maybe he should be paying attention, because if Alexander knew that Aaron hadn't been listening, he would be trapped there for another hour, _minimum_ , and Aaron had a train to catch. What had Alexander been talking about...

It was difficult to really keep track of what Alexander's current predicament was. A few weeks ago, Aaron had been treated to a drunk phone call from Alexander at roughly three in the morning, going on and on about how he had met the girl he was going to marry. Aaron had ignored it, but when he finally got the opportunity to speak with a (sober) Alexander, he had delivered a crucial piece of information.

Alexander _had_ met a girl that captured his attention for longer than five minutes at a time, and that girl was Elizabeth Schuyler, one of the daughters of Philip Schuyler, senior Senator of New York and resident war hero. And he had talked about nothing since.

\-- ah, right. There was his out for not paying attention.

"You're in love," Aaron said after a moment, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Alexander impassively, his eyebrows arching slightly at the positively indignant look on Alexander's face. "What? That's what you're talking about, and what you have been talking about, incessantly, for weeks."

"Why do I bother running any of my plans by you?" Alexander asked in exasperation, resting his palms against the table as he pushed himself onto his feet. He looked exhausted, Aaron noted... the product of working and maintaining a ridiculously large class schedule and being involved in literally every student activity known to man. "Of course I'm in love, I know that, I don't need you to tell me--"

"Stop talking," Aaron advised, and Alexander (much to Aaron's surprise) stopped... and seemed to recognize that speaking loudly about the various injustices Aaron Burr thrust upon him in a library was probably not the wisest decision. And so, when Alexander sat back down, Aaron waited a few moments to make sure he had properly collected himself before continuing. "Have you even taken her out on a date yet?" Aaron asked, watching Alexander's face carefully, to spot any sign of hiding the truth... a laughable concept, when Alexander only wore his heart on his sleeve. "How do you know you're in love?"

"How do you -- " The frustration was almost laughable, as Alexander dropped back into his seat, crossing his arms with such petulance that Aaron had to roll his eyes. How dramatic. "Have you never read _any_ great love story? What kind of ridiculous question is that?"

"The question of someone who likes to get to know a person before deciding they're going to plan a future together," Aaron said dryly, tilting his head. "Care to explain what your definition of love at first sight is?"

While there was a clear stubbornness in Alexander's posture at being asked the question, Aaron knew that Alexander would cave... and cave he did, with a roll of his eyes, and a careful artful bite to his tone. Almost condescension, but not quite. Alexander Hamilton still hadn't managed the art of speaking like he knew better than everyone else, even when he did not. "I've never felt like this with anyone else I've ever met."

"Felt like what?" Aaron asked, unfolding his arms to collect his coffee cup, adjusting the paper sleeve that had slipped down mid-conversation. "The urge to speak with them past the one night stand?"

"Completeness." Aaron paused before his lips touched the edge of the cup, and Alexander huffed before glancing away, his eyes scanning the surroundings, devouring every single person within earshot with a critical glance. "I feel like I've found a part of myself that was... missing, with her. She cares about who I am, not what I say. She... I don't know, man, she asked me what my favorite color is--"

"What is your favorite color?" Aaron interrupted, tone curious, before taking a sip of his latte. 

"Green," Alexander responded absently, and Aaron did not miss the faint upward twitch of his mouth, as Alexander allowed himself a faint smile. A memory, maybe, passing through in a fleeting manner, because Alexander's expression soon returned back to disgruntled and contemplative. "She likes talking to me because she likes talking to me, not because she wants something."

"And you're . . . upset because, why?" Aaron set down his cup, now invested in the conversation. From what Alexander had described, it sounded as if Eliza was just as hooked on him as Alexander was on her... but something else Alexander had mentioned popped into his head... he was supposed to take Eliza for coffee, for a date, and that hadn't happened yet. And suddenly, Aaron remembered what Alexander had been complaining about for the last week: the Schuyler sisters (two of them, anyway) had returned upstate, leaving Alexander alone to wonder what comes next. "I have to admit, Alex, the hesitation is unbecoming. You're usually the first one to chase down what you want, and you haven't even taken this girl out on a date yet? Why?"

There was a silence before Alexander sighed, turning his attention to the table, where a stack of papers and notebooks sat in front of Alexander, untouched and unmarked. It was an odd thing, to see Alexander so... quiet, and reserved, but Aaron wasn't entirely sure if it was because of his latest infatuation with Eliza, or because he hadn't properly slept in a week. Eventually, Aaron got his answer, with a murmured, "She went back upstate before I had a chance. It's winter break, they don't stay in the city for the break."

"So take her out when she gets back," Aaron said mildly, shrugging a shoulder. "What's the rush?"

"Because Angelica invited me upstate for Christmas, and I don't know how to tell her I can't go." And before Aaron could ask, Alexander exhaled, his fingers fidgeting with a loose piece of paper sticking out of one of the notebooks set in front of him. "Would you show up to someone's mansion or--"

"Manor." The correction was seamless, and Aaron shrugged at Alexander's incredulous expression. "The Schuylers have lived in New York State for God knows how long... since the Revolution, at least. And they're incredibly wealthy; the Schuyler Manor is a historical landmark, with a ton of land. You can buy a postcard of their house." And, when Alexander continued to stare, Aaron's tone became somewhat defensive, "What are you staring at?"

"How do you know you can get a postcard of their house?" Alexander asked, his eyebrows arching as Aaron felt his cheeks flush slightly. Alexander had the miraculous ability to turn a conversation on a dime, switching the control of the moment from his opponent to himself with a simple question... and now, Aaron was the interrogated, and Alexander was no longer the accused. "Do rich people trade them with each other, like Magic cards, or do you just save them in a little book so you know who's in and who's out with the latest stock market trends?"

"You get to know the people you're surrounded with," Aaron responded curtly, which prompted a snort of laughter from Alexander... which was better than the sleep-deprived sulking from earlier, so Aaron was remiss to complain. "And to answer your question, no, I would not show up to someone's manor without an express invitation, which it sounds like you have."

"To meet someone's very rich, very influential father, and I've got no money, no prospects, no--"

"--and the Schuylers want to meet you anyway, which is all the better for you, and your future goals," Aaron interrupted, almost annoyed at why Alexander was belaying the point. Why was he bothering to self-sabotage an opportunity to be great? Over what, _true love_? It was ridiculous to the point of aggravation. "You're acting as if being connected with Philip Schuyler is a burden, when it's a gift."

"A gift," Alexander repeated, and while Aaron could tell that he was annoyed by characterizing meeting Angelica and Eliza's father as a political gambit, Aaron knew that Alexander understood. Deep down, part of Alexander was just as craven as the rest of them... even if he hid it exceptionally well. "I'm not going to their Christmas party to hobnob with old man Schuyler, I'm going - I _would_ go because they want me to go... and fuck you, by the way," Alexander added, which caused Aaron's eyebrows to arch. "Eliza's not something to be won, and neither's Angelica."

"No, but a relationship with Senator Schuyler is. Opportunities may not fall into everyone's lap, but this one seems to have fallen into yours." Aaron shifted to push his chair backwards, the sound scraping against the carpet as Aaron stood to collect his bag and coffee. "You're fixating on something that isn't even real, when what's obvious is right in front of you."

"So you would go?" Alexander asked, his brow furrowing as Aaron began to pack up his things. For all of his blustering, Alexander was a quick study, and a faint laugh escaped Aaron's lips at the question. "Just to meet her father for... meeting her father?"

"Of course," Aaron responded easily, shouldering his messenger bag, picking up his coffee with his free hand. "It's rude to decline an invitation, especially from someone as esteemed and well-connected as Angelica Schuyler." He paused before turning back to face Alexander properly, finally offering Alex a faint smile of his own, with the tiniest spark of mischief. "If you're going to participate in higher society, Alex, you need to learn the rules... and one of those rules is attending pointless social engagements to smile, take photographs, and talk about the state of affairs with people who have all the power to change it, but none of the incentive to do it."

There was a silence, at that, before Alexander exhaled slowly, tilting back in his chair to watch Aaron pull on his gloves, to ward from the cold outside. "They're not going to think I'm good enough for either of them." It wasn't a question, but a resigned statement of fact. "And I'm going to get a lot of questions I can't answer."

"You're the one who fell in love with an heiress," Aaron responded mildly, not finding an ounce of sympathy to be found for Alexander's predicament of being invited to a networking dream. He paused, though, before he left the table, and inclined his head toward the door. "If you want to keep having this therapy session, it has to be on the go. Are you coming? I have to catch a train."

"Me - nah, I have to head home and figure out some stuff, Lafayette is heading back to France for the holidays, and Laurens and Mulligan are leaving today, so I've got to -- I'll catch up with you later," Alexander said quickly, and he got to his feet to begin collecting his notebooks and papers, shoving them haphazardly into his backpack... which, Aaron noted, was a lovely shade of olive green. "It's all good, thanks, I'm already late anyway to--"

"Alexander."

The interruption of his name caused Alexander to pause and look up, whatever he was going to blather on about next lost to the ages... and Aaron offered him a faint smile before extending a hand, to shake.

"Merry Christmas, if I don't see you before the holiday," Aaron said... but when Alexander didn't shake his hand, he hesitated, withdrawing it half an inch before continuing, a bit awkwardly, "And I'm sure you'll be fine, at the party... you can talk your way out of anything, and I doubt--"

But his words were cut off by the sudden seizing of his hand, and Aaron was pulled forward into a tight hug. His spine stiffened, at the sudden contact... and stupidly, the first thought that popped into Aaron's head was that he couldn't remember the last time he had received a genuine hug... but once Alexander didn't loosen his grip after a few seconds, Aaron awkwardly pat him on the back once or twice, before murmuring, "Try not to open your mouth when you get through the door, and I'm sure you'll be welcomed with warm arms." The comment caused a laugh, and Alexander released his grip, his hands shifting to Aaron's shoulders... and, finally, Alexander gave him a warm grin, shaking his shoulders for half a second before letting go. And before Aaron could stop himself, he ventured forth with a question, "What was that for?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it -- merry Christmas," Alexander said warmly, turning to pick up his own packed bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a well-practiced ease. "I'll text you when I get to Albany."

And, with that, Alexander slipped past him to move out the doors of the library, leaving Aaron Burr mystified and silent in the wake of his sudden holiday cheer.

What had he said to elicit _that_ response?


	8. GEORGE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has been safe. xo Apologies the chapter is not longer - it's more of a transition into the next chapter than a proper long chapter.
> 
> To answer a question: the kids in the present timeline are:
> 
> Philip: 22  
> Angelica: 18  
> Rachel: 13

* * *

**GEORGE.**

_Washington, D.C._

_74 Hours After Alexander Hamilton Was Shot._

* * *

George tugged at his sleeve slightly to check the time. Just past eight o'clock in the evening, though it felt much later than that. Time seemed to drag endlessly in the hospital, and while George was not necessarily glued to his cell phone like Alexander, he wished cell phone service worked. It seemed only government phones had the capability of working, for whatever reason. He gave up asking the Secret Service members posted outside of Alexander's door for more clarification than that--they, it seemed, did not want to talk.

A soft noise of frustration to his right caused his attention to slip back into the present, and George glanced over at Angelica Hamilton, who was staring with an intense amount of focus at the slowly ticking numbers that indicated the elevator was moving down. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her hair somewhat askew as red-redrimmed eyes drilled holes into the door of the elevator... but she said nothing.

"You are remarkably like your father," George sighed as he tugged his sleeve back down, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks as he, too, turned his attention to the door of the elevator. "Stubborn to the last."

"Is that a problem?" came the sullen, yet curt, response. George glanced toward Angie again, but her eyes did not move away from the elevator door. Every single fiber of her being seemed to be stuck on a vibrating wire of tension... give an inch, and she may not be able to put herself back together again. _Just like Alexander_.

"No," George said mildly. Twelfth floor... eleventh floor... "The opposite, unless you're threatening to start a fist fight with the Secretary of State and the senior Senator from New York in the hallway of a hospital."

"I don't need a lecture, Grandpa," Angie muttered, though her eyes moved from the door of the elevator down to the floor, her sneakers scuffing the worn tile half-heartedly. "I get it, I shouldn't have threatened to punch him in the face, I promise I won't do it again."

"I wasn't intending on lecturing you." Eighth floor... and George sighed before he reached out to press the emergency stop button. The elevator lurched and shuddered to a halt, and Angie blinked before giving him her full attention, eyes showing some level of curiosity and some level of apprehension. _She's still expecting that lecture._ "I was intending to ask what you needed."

"What I need?" Angie repeated, her tone a little incredulous. Her arms were still wrapped tightly over her chest, her fingers digging into her forearms as she stared at George, almost in disbelief. "What do you mean, what I need?"

"From me." George watched her carefully, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you need from me?"

He had no biological children of his own. The closest he and Martha had to a child was Alexander, who was undoubtedly family, and their son. And Alexander was easy to handle, when you knew how to do it. He required a firm hand, on occasion, but Angelica Hamilton . . . even a gentle hand caused her to push back out of sheer spite. Alexander speculated that Angie lashed out so quickly because she was the middle child, and needed to create a scene in order to felt heard. George was certain that Angie was a Hamilton, and that was just how they came out of the womb -- difficult to the last. Alexander and George had agreed to disagree on the issue of Angelica Hamilton's attitude problem, though George was fairly certain that only meant Alexander believed he was correct.

Still, he could see Angie's walls cracking slightly, at the question, and finally, Angie drew in a quivering breath. "I got into a fight with him," Angie muttered, stubbornly wiping her eyes from the tears that refused to fall. "Before his speech."

"Who, your father?" George asked, a little surprised at the statement. Alexander and Angie were thick as thieves on the best of occasions, and even when Angie was being exceptionally difficult, Alexander was her fiercest defender and protector. After all, Angelica Hamilton was simply just using her voice; no one should lecture her into silence. That being said, Alexander often provoked his eldest daughter into argument for the _sport_ of it. They were both wickedly smart, and often debated into the early hours of the evening about nothing. George was convinced that was just how they spoke. "About what?"

"Something stupid." And Angie rummaged through the pockets of her sweatshirt before she pulled out her phone, unlocking it with a few touches of her finger before pulling up her voicemails. "I was mad at him because he had to cancel dinner with me, and he was supposed to speak at Smith and he couldn't because of something important, and I got mad. And he called me before the speech, and I didn't answer it." But before George could ask for more details, Angie hit _play_ on the voicemail.

" _You're going to have to pick up your phone eventually_ , _Angie_." The grumble of Alexander's voice caused a sharp tug in George's chest, but he suppressed it to listen. " _I know you're mad at me, I know that, and I'm sorry, I don't have any excuses, but I promise I'll make it up to you. Okay?_ " There was a pause in Alexander's speaking before he continued, his tone shifting from exasperation and apologetic to warm. _"I'm about to run on stage, but the minute I'm off, I'm catching the first plane to Massachusetts. You've got me the whole weekend. We'll do whatever you want to do, just you and me. On the condition you don't tell your mother, because I haven't exactly told her this yet, but -- I'm talking to my daughter, fuck off for two seconds, I don't need that-- anyway, I love you, and I'll see you soon."_

The voicemail ended, and George remained silent for a moment, wrestling with the sudden rush of emotion that had moved through him at the sound of Alexander's voice, before he sighed heavily. "You know that Alexander knows you aren't legitimately angry with him," George said quietly, though he did reach out to gently squeeze Angie's shoulder in comfort. "He--" But George was interrupted by Angie suddenly turning to wrap her arms around his middle, burying her face into his chest with a sudden sob, and George hesitated for half a second before hugging the girl loosely, exhaling slowly. "Angelica..."

"I didn't even care about the stupid talk, I was upset because I got a C on a paper and I just wanted to see him," came the muffled response, her tone choked with tears. "But I didn't want to tell him I got a C on a paper because he would be disappointed, and--"

"Your father will never be disappointed in whatever any of you three do," George interrupted, his tone suddenly firm, and he gently detatched Angie's arms from his waist to put his own hands on her shoulder, to force the young woman to look him in the eye. Her eyes were red with tears, and Angie looked as if she hadn't slept in a few days -- likely because she hadn't. But before Angie could protest, George continued, shaking his head slightly. "Everything that he does, he does for the three of you. You understand that?"

Angie inhaled deeply, letting out the breath in a shuddered gasp as she forced herself to stop crying. And George felt a tug of sympathy in his heart, but he remained quiet as Angie wrestled with the statement before she allowed her shoulders to slump slightly, and she finally nodded, a faint _yes, sir_ mumbled under her breath. And, not for the first time, George was reminded of a nineteen, twenty, twenty-one year old Alexander, similarly full of fight and anger, but that fight escaping quickly as soon as he was confronted with the reality of the situation -- that not every single thing needed to be a fight. And once Angie seemed to realize that, and allow herself to feel _grief_ , did she finally say what she actually needed from George, which was:

"I want to see Uncle Lafayette," she murmured finally, averting her eyes to the elevator door, seemingly embarrassed by the request. George wasn't surprised by the request; if there was someone in existence who doted on Angelica Hamilton more than her father, it was her beloved uncle. "But he's at the White House, and I can't use my cell phone in this stupid fu--"

"A national crisis doesn't give you an excuse for language like that," George interrupted evenly, turning toward the elevator to flip the emergency stop switch. It took a moment, but the elevator soon started moving again, shuddering back to life with an odd jolt. "Do you want to be taken to the White House?" he asked after a moment, his eyes remaining on the numbers above the elevator.

"Are they even letting people into the White House?" Angie asked, looking up at her grandfather with a slight frown. "The whole city is on lockdown."

"Do you think your father would allow something like a lockdown stop him from getting into the White House?" George responded, glancing toward Angie, arching his eyebrows slightly.

Angie stared back at him, expression slightly incredulous before -- _finally --_ her face broke into a slight grin; the arrogant swaggering acceptance of victory that Alexander wore when faced with a challenge, the spitting image replicated onto his eldest daughter's face. "Hell no," she said after a moment, quickly wiping her eyes with a sleeve as the elevator ticked down to the ground floor. "He'd drive the car himself."

"Then I suppose we had best find a car," George said mildly, reaching out to rest a hand on Angie's shoulder to have her pause as the doors opened; instinctively, to make sure no one was there as they stepped out into the lobby. "Shouldn't be too difficult, given the weather."

* * *

**GEORGE.**

_Upstate New York._

_Winter. Past._

* * *

Alexander Hamilton was now a near-constant presence in his life. George isn't entirely certain _when_ it happened, just that it _had_. Alexander stayed after nearly every class to talk to George about everything from the lesson to running for state office, and Martha had invited Alexander to dinner at least once a week. Soon, Alexander was greeted with warm hugs by Martha whenever she saw him, and Alexander had turned from the prickly, suspicious young man George had met on his first day of class to someone gregarious, with something to _prove_. He was dangerously intelligent, which often got him into trouble... so George spent about as much time giving Alexander _extra_ work to do as he did grading the work he turned in by the bucketload.

In that same vein, George had known that Alexander was an individual who needed to be constantly moving, constantly talking, constantly doing _something_ , but he hadn't quite realized how much until he was trapped in a car with the young man for nearly four hours. It had taken little doing, to invite Alexander along to Christmas with the Schuyler family; Philip had extended the invitation to the Washingtons, and Alexander had agreed with suspicious haste. He knew that Angelica and Alexander were thick as thieves on campus, but he had little idea that Alexander had entrenched himself into the family with something _more_ than that.

Alexander, though, had been quiet for the last hour, having exhausted the conversation concerning schoolwork. And while George was content to leave him to his silence, Martha certainly was not.

"Why are you being so quiet?" Through the rearview mirror, George could see that Martha's voice distracted Alexander from his thoughts, and Alexander let his eyes flicker to the front of the car, to see Martha peering over the edge of her seat at him, scrutinizing, but kind. "I'm thinking," Alexander responded, his tone distracted -- something that George could tell was the truth, but he could also tell that Martha was not going to be satisfied with such an easy cop out response.

"About what?" Martha prodded. And when Alexander didn't answer, Martha seized upon the topic that she knew would stir Alexander to response. "About how excited Eliza is going to be to see you?" And George, in the mirror, could see Alexander's cheeks turn slightly pink at the comment, which Alexander quickly covered with a roll of his eyes as he looked out the window. "Or Angelica, and Peggy, and--"

"I was thinking that Philip Schuyler has a lot of places to hide a body up here, and no one would find me even if they wanted to," Alexander interrupted dryly, which earned him a quick swat of Martha's hand against his leg. "Hey -- !"

"It's Christmas, for Heaven's sake, you don't need to act like we're driving you to a funeral!" Martha protested, turning back to face the front of the road with a huff, placing her hands back in her lap. “You look handsome, Philip is a perfect gentleman, and it’s the holiday season, there is absolutely nothing to be worried about.”

George waited for the inevitable argument; he had known Alexander had been seeing Eliza (in a loose term) through the proverbial grapevine. Philip Schuyler didn't seem particularly enthused that Elizabeth had taken a liking to someone like Alexander, but then again, Philip hadn't yet met Alexander. He tended to have a bewitching influence over anyone he spoke with, including the Washingtons, which was why George had agreed to tag him along in the first place. Still, the silence hanging in the air after Martha’s optimism was uncharacteristic.

"What are you worried about?" George asked finally, earning a warm smile from Martha (for asking the question) and a withering look from Alexander (for the same thing). And George exhaled in a sigh as he continued along the highway, his tone shifting to something dry. "You seemed all too eager to take the invitation when offered, so I'm surprised with the sudden apprehension. It's too late to turn around now."

It only took a few more moments for Alexander to sigh, and George could see that he was scrolling through his phone absently as he spoke. “I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of her father.” It was a bizarrely normal problem to have, given Alexander's standard state of being alternated between revolution and picking fights with government officials. "And I don’t want to say the wrong thing, or make her look stupid for dating someone who doesn’t know what fork goes with what dish, or—I don't even really know if we're dating, so we should probably start there,” Alexander said tiredly, resting his head against the window of the car, and he seemed to be gearing up to keep talking when George quickly cut him off.

“Philip Schuyler is a United States Senator and a combat veteran with a Purple Heart with three daughters that he has raised on his own, once of which is Angelica,” George interrupted patiently, glancing in the rearview mirror to look at Alexander, who returned his expression with a stony defiance. “You are going to look stupid regardless of what you do, who you are, or where you come from, son, so the sooner you get over that, the happier you will be.”

"George," Martha sighed to herself, which earned her something of a _what_? look from George, because nothing he said was _untrue_.

“Thanks for the sage advice, sir,” Alexander responded stonily, resting his head back against the seat to continue sulking out the window. “I really appreciate the input.”

“You’re welcome," George responded mildly, returning his attention to the road in front of him. "Leave your attitude in the car, it might help.”

* * *

George stepped out of the car onto the grounds of the Schuyler Estate with a sigh. He hadn't been to the Estate in some time, but it was no less beautiful than the last time he had visited. The building was an old brick, a colonial manor that had stood the test of time through multiple wars. The snow stretching around the land was beautiful, and Christmas lights twinkled along the windows. But George's attention was soon distracted by the opening of the door of the estate, and a figure descending the stairs quickly.

The older man coming down to meet them was dressed in a crisp, tailored suit that set well against his darker skin—and, not for the first time, George was struck by the fact that Eliza must take after her mother, because the man coming down the steps was the spitting image of Angelica and Peggy. And while George gave a warm smile at the man coming down the steps, he could feel Alexander practically vibrating out of his skin just behind him, as he exited the car.  
  
“George, Martha,” Philip Schuyler said warmly, greeting George with a firm handshake and Martha with a hug as another man appeared out of seemingly nowhere to take their car into the garage that was somewhere behind the estate home. “Merry Christmas, I’m glad you could make it. I trust the drive was uneventful?”

“Uneventful to a fault,” George responded with a rare smile, reaching out without missing a beat to grab Alexander by the edge of his sweater to prevent him from making a hasty escape up the stairs. “We mostly switched between silence and listening to Alexander’s dissertation defense, premature by six years.”

There was a pause as Philip Schuyler’s eyes shifted from George down to Alexander, seemingly with X-RAY vision as he looked him up and down, his lips pursing together into a slight frown. “Alexander?” 

There was a sharp prod in his back (from Martha's hand, George noticed out of the corner of his eye) after Alexander said nothing for two seconds, and he shifted his bag to another shoulder before holding out his hand to shake, forcing a straightening of his back, setting his jaw. The motion caused a faint twitch of George's lips, because even if it made no difference, Alexander wasn’t going to allow appearance alone to set the tone for who and what he was. “Hamilton,” Alexander finished, his tone even. “Alexander Hamilton. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Hamilton,” Philip repeated. And George arched his eyebrows toward Philip, a silent _don't be difficult_ in his eyes. But eventually, Philip reached out and gripped Alexander’s hand to shake it in a brief, but firm grip. “I never received an actual confirmation that you were attending the holiday season." It was a blatant lie on behalf of Philip, who had extended the invitation (from Angelica) to George (albeit reluctantly), but George said nothing, instead pursing his lips together to avoid smiling.

“Neither did I, but I’m sure we’ll get through it together.” And, without missing a beat, Alexander finally eased into a confident, warm smile. "The Washingtons were kind enough to invite me to join them, and I'm thankful you're opening your home to me during the season."

It was an artful throwing of George under the bus; smart, George thought to himself, as he watched Philip's reaction. Philip couldn't possibly argue with George and refuse him, and while there was nothing to _refuse_ , as Philip had been the one to extend the invitation, Alexander had masterfully gotten himself out of the awkward confrontation by making it impossible for Philip to call the bluff.

If it were any other time, George would have been annoyed, but he was moderately pleased with Alexander for navigating the issue so quickly and efficiently. He would do just fine.

"Come help me with the bags, Alexander," Martha piped up, and Alexander immediately turned at the sound of his name to do precisely what Martha asked -- quietly thankful, George thought, at the excuse to remove himself from the situation. And while Martha and Alexander busied themselves with the car, George turned toward Philip, arching his eyebrows slightly.

"I've heard stories," Philip responded after a moment, his tone slightly exasperated as he watched Alexander busy himself with accepting whatever Martha handed him that had been removed from the car from the butler who took the vehicle to park. "About this Hamilton."

"Any of them good?" George asked dryly, watching the same scene.

"Nothing but shining stories from Angelica and Elizabeth both, but the Board of Directors of Columbia tell me different stories," Philip responded, his tone a bit flat as he watched Alexander follow Martha up the steps, carrying at least six bags full of gifts. "But Angelica and Eliza insisted that I extend an invitation... something about how he had nowhere else to go for Christmas."

"That much is true," George murmured, and he began to walk up the steps, Philip Schuyler at his side as they made their way to the front door. Alexander and Martha had already vanished inside. "He has no family that I know of. He lives in Harlem with some fellow students, and has no parents -- so he likely would have remained in the apartment by himself until the semester started again."

Philip made a soft 'hrm' noise as he paused by the door, glancing toward George with narrowed eyes. "Is he a troublemaker?"

"Undoubtedly," George said mildly, crossing his arms over his chest as he met his friend's gaze, inclining his head toward the door. "But he is a good kid," he continued, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "And I know he's exceptionally concerned with impressing your daughter, so for the sake of us all, please be kind."

"Angelica would never let me hear the end of it if I behaved otherwise," Philip said tiredly, though he seemed to be appeased with George's description, and he gestured to allow George to enter the home first, stepping in shortly after. "I've been told that I must be on my absolute best behavior, if Alexander decided to make a _grand_ entrance."

"Oh, I'm certain he'll make at least that," George said mildly, allowing his eyes to wander to see the front entrance of the Schuyler Estate. It was decked out for Christmas, with boughs of holly and garlands wrapping around the rails of the grand staircase that led to the upper living quarters. He could see multiple Christmas trees through the doorways that spread to the large ballroom to the right, and the living area to the left. All in all, it looked pristine and seasonal, and George mulled that over for a moment before he glanced toward Philip, arching his eyebrows. "Are you throwing a proper party?"

"It's an election year, I don't have much choice," Philip said heavily, shrugging his shoulders as he slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, looking toward George, his expression clear that the last thing he wanted to do was entertain the masses. "You're obviously welcome to attend while you stay, but I've prepared the guest home for--"

"Oh, if you want a _treat_ , you should watch Alexander at a party," George interrupted, his tone dry as he looked toward his old friend, faintly amused. "He'll have everyone in that room donating the maximum amount to your re-election effort by the end of the night."


End file.
